Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Morgana could see hardly anything in the dark forest. It was dead silent. She could hear nothing, no signs of life except the beating of her own heart in her ears. Still, she was not sure if she was really there, if she even had a body. But then she felt the soft moss and crunch of fallen leaves beneath her feet, she smelled the rich aroma of the damp forest floor, and she finally felt a tangible connection to the world, grounding her. She looked up. 

A shadowy figure loomed over her. Blue eyes looked down at her, and shimmering tears started flowing from them. She could only see a dark silhouette and their almost luminous weeping eyes, pleading. Like they were mourning. For what? She didn't know.

She didn’t know if it was pure instinct or the desire to comfort the figure but she reached out with careful hands, wanting to wipe the tears away. 

Everything disappeared and she had the sensation of falling. Her throat squeezed, her chest tightened, and she felt like she'd been gutted. She sensed that she was fading away into the abyss too.

Morgana jolted awake to the darkness of the early morning in her hotel room, clutching at her throat and stomach. She shuddered, as for a second she thought she saw a face in the ceiling. She sat up on the bed, closed her eyes and took deep breaths, as she always does after a nightmare. Morning light start filtering in through the windows and she sighed in relief. The faint light fell on the newspaper on her bedside table, and she snatched it, trying to think of something else besides her childish nightmares, remembering what she came to this town for. 

Morgana squinted, looking over the newspaper advertisement in her hands and then gazed up at the house in front of her, making sure it’s not abandoned like the other houses. Yes, it was the right address. 

At first glance, it appeared no different from the surrounding houses in the neighborhood. An aging Victorian structure, the garden somewhat overgrown, with creeping vines adorning its weathered walls. Yet, an undeniable aura set it apart, an imposing presence that distinguished it from the neighboring residences. Its cylindrical tower reached skyward and welcoming her in was the intricate woodwork of the stairway's hand railing, delicately adorned with swirling vines. 

Morgana approached the door, the old wooden floors creaking at each step, and knocked. She fixed her collar and smoothed down her long green pencil skirt while waiting, and her eyes traced the intricate carvings on the door, where the knocker takes the form of a snarling golden dragon head positioned right in the center.

After some time the door opened revealing a man, seemingly hesitant to show himself completely, his face still shrouded in darkness.

"May I help you?"

"Mister Merlin Ambrose?"

He nodded.

"Good morning. My name is Morgana Le Fay. I'm here for your advertisement." Morgana beamed. "I'm applying for the job offer to research about Emrys."

He tilted his head. “What advertisement? I haven’t had an advertisement out in a while. No one was applying anyway.” 

Morgana’s brows furrowed. "Really? But it's right here. It says the job is still open." Morgana handed him the newspaper along with her credentials and the man examined it. 

He took a step closer, and his gaunt face finally emerged from the shadows. His gaze fixed on Morgana, and his eyes narrowed. In an instant, he looked like a deer in the headlights, and he carefully but hastily returned the newspaper to her hands and she took a step back.

“Um—this must be a mistake with the publisher. I’ll let them know."

"Oh. What a shame.” Morgana pulled at her own sleeves. “But is the job still open?"

"I am not looking to employ anyone at the moment. I’m sorry that the advert led you on.” His face goes back to the shadows. 

The door closed and she just stood there, the newspaper close to dropping from her palm, the snarling dragon mocking her. She willed herself to walk away, returning to the hotel she checked into when she traveled here.

When she returned to her hotel room to rest she had the same nightmare as earlier. Darkness, glowing eyes, silent tears, being smothered. That’s what led her to take a walk in the woods the next morning to clear her head, making sure not to stray too far away. She tried to shake off her nightmare, trying to forget about it and not think about what it could mean.

Before even coming to this town, out of curiosity, Morgana briefly did some digging on ‘Emrys’ and she came across a passage mentioning a great lake. She wanted to see if the lake in town might be it. In the distance she can see the serene horizon of the lake. She walked a bit faster towards it as the sound of its waves beckoned her. 

As she navigated the woods, she was again reminded of her rejection. She was baffled. She recalled the ad. At this point she knew it by heart.

Archivist Wanted: for researching, collecting, recording, and archiving in an organized manner information about the figure ‘Emrys’; age 25 or older, with a degree in history, knowledgeable in English history, and experience working in a library or archiving. Good wages and furnished apartments.  

The ad was practically made for her. All that was missing on it was her name. She was surprised no one else had applied for the job. The requirements and job description were fairly simple and it paid handsomely. It was all she needed right now.

And the house. Its somewhat eerie appearance was the kind that would make children pass by walk faster. Yet, this house had an inexplicable allure that beckoned her. It bore an age beyond its years, a relic steeped in history. Following the industrial revolution and the devastation of two world wars, many of the affluent had abandoned their Victorian homes, deeming their architectural design as grotesque, an invitation to death and decay. Morgana was pleased to see that houses with that kind of style have not all been completely abandoned like some of the ones in that neighborhood.

The job advertisement was all too good to be true. And apparently it was, because it had been a mistake in printing, as the man claims. She doubted that and rationalized that the ad might have been genuine, but Mr. Ambrose did not want to employ her for some reason and so he made up the story of the ad being a mistake to soften the blow for her. She suspected her being a woman looking for a job in the mid 20th century might have had something to do with her not getting the job. She huffed as she kicked the fallen leaves around. After the great war and now that they were living in the so-called "prosperous age", it was even more difficult for her to land a job, as the ones that women occupied during the war were taken back by men. A learned woman like her still had twice the difficulty as a layman in getting a job, let alone receiving even just a scrap of recognition.

She had been impulsive in quitting her previous job at the library, but the monotony was eating away at her and she needed a change of pace. The job in the ad would have been perfect to fund her for a few months until she could get back on her feet again and finally land herself a more reputable position. 

She stopped in her tracks. There he is. Morgana thought as she spotted Merlin Ambrose standing in front of the calm lake, his coat billowing in the wind. Morgana shifted from one heel to another, trying to decide if she should disturb him again. He seemed deep in thought, seemingly unaware of his surroundings except the shimmering waters of the grand lake before him. If she left now, where would she even go?

She somehow had to convince Mr. Ambrose that the job still had utility and that she would be perfect for it. Determined, she walked up to him.

“Mr. Ambrose. It must be fate that we meet again, here of all places,” she said jokingly.

“Ms. Le Fey. I didn’t expect to see you here.” He turned to her. 

“I did some homework about Emrys, and came across a passage about a great lake. I also discovered that there is a lake nearby. I wasn't entirely sure if it was the same lake but I wanted to visit anyway. May I ask what led you to want to hire someone to research about him?” she said.

“I wanted to learn about my family history.”

“I guess I came to the right lake after all. I understand that you are wary of people coming into your home to seek employment to know about your past, but I think learning your family history could be a great opportunity for both of us to work on.” 

“It’s been a long time and I’ve gathered some information, none of which makes any sense.” He shook his head.

“It does seem that very little is known about Emrys. Just imagine, the discoveries we could make could shake the world of history.”

“It all feels futile. Sometimes I find myself thinking that if my predecessors wanted it all hidden and ambiguous it would be better off that way, undiscovered, and I can move on with my life.”  

“But how thrilling would it be to discover where your identity came from? Retrace the steps of those who came before you? Your house seems to contain its own treasure trove of stories.” She stepped closer. “It feels that we are both at a stagnant state in our lives, and somewhat lost. If there is anything I have learned in studying history it's that we can’t be ignorant of the past and simply move on, because the past cannot be separated from the present and the future. It’s a link that can never be severed and it dictates everything that will happen, whether we acknowledge it or not.” 

Merlin’s brows raised and he turned his body towards her. Morgana worried that she scared him with the ramblings of a woman who tried a little too hard to prove that she was educated.

“I’m sorry for the abrupt way I turned you away earlier. I might have judged you too quickly, Ms. Le Fey.” 

“It's alright. You can call me Morgana.”

His eyes crinkled, dimples appeared and Morgana saw him smile for the first time. He looked back at the lake. Morgana took this opportunity to observe him more intently. Though he appeared irritated the last time they met, now, he had a bashful demeanor. As he gazed upon the crystal waters of the lake, his blue eyes looked brighter, but held traces of melancholy. He didn't look much older than her, they could be the same age, but his features made him appear weathered. Despite the weariness etched on his face, there's an undeniable innocence in his countenance, and his bright blue eyes gave him a youthful charm. His eyes met hers and she felt chills as he gave her the same scrutiny as she did him. 

Merlin remembered why he turned her away the first time. When he looked at her standing at his doorstep, he was mesmerized by her green eyes and striking features but it only lasted a second when overwhelming dread took over him. It was a feeling he could not explain, and he could not figure out where it came from.

As they stood in front of the lake, he looked into those very eyes again now. They shimmered with both eagerness and a subtle weariness that struck a chord within him. For the first time in a while, he felt that he discovered a kindred spirit. He was entrapped by the world hidden in her emerald eyes that he longed to see more of. He finally relented. Perhaps he could learn more about her too.

Morgana stood there again at Mr. Ambrose’s doorstep clutching her luggage with a grin on her face. She couldn’t believe she had convinced him to hire her. Her giddy excitement contrasted the dark façade of the house which was waiting to devour her whole.

Merlin opened the door and greeted her as she entered the manor for the first time. His gaze lingered on her, as if still in disbelief that she followed through with her plan to work for him, as if she were a surreal apparition. 

Morgana stepped further into the house, her eyes adjusting to the dim interiors of the house contrasting the harsh daylight outside. It was too dark to see the details in the living room, but she could make out silhouettes of a few statues, old furniture, windows with heavy draperies, shelves full of books and idols, and several oil paintings on the walls. She would have to study them later. Her attention was drawn somewhere else.

Her breath is caught by the beauty of the stained glass window at the landing of the staircase in front of her. It depicted a majestic white dragon cradling the sun in its claws. Sunlight streamed through it, which the curtains on every other window stubbornly kept out. The artwork bathed the interiors in a kaleidoscope of warm colors—white, red, purple, and golden yellow—which scattered onto the walls and stairs. It created a dreamlike atmosphere that made the very air feel enchanted. Gazing upon it made Morgana feel like she was floating. The image was much more comforting compared to the foreboding dragon on the main door. Perhaps she could stay here after all.

“Your room and study is on the second floor at the end of the left hallway,” Merlin said, pulling her out of her reverie. He led the way up the stairs. She studied the window more closely as they passed it.

Morgana carefully followed the sound of Merlin’s footsteps. She smelled wax-polished wood and her eyes traced the vintage floral wallpapers that peeled off the walls slightly at the edges. They reached the door at the end of the hallway and Merlin opened it. Morgana entered her room and turned around to give him a grateful smile.

Merlin now observes her with curious eyes, wondering how this enchanting raven-haired beauty had found him, and why she had been so persistent to work for him.

Chapter Text

Morgana drew back the thick curtains so her new room could see the sun. It didn’t look so gloomy anymore. She set her luggage beside the dresser to unload her things. Across the room there was a desk with a candlestick and a gas lamp. She sat on the metal-framed bed in the middle of the room and let her hands roam over the soft wine-colored sheets. It felt luxurious, like a dream. The bedframe’s gold coat faded at the posts, glinting softly in the light. The loops and spirals on the bed frame mimicked the pattern of the damask wallpaper with its green and gold vines weaving into braids. Her glance went back to her window. All that was missing was the stained glass window of the white dragon in its place. This would be her home for some time. 

Morgana settled in so that she could be acquainted with the house once she got out of her room.

She opened her door and in the middle of the hallway, there was a door that opened to a balcony. At the other end of the long hallway there was another door. Must be Mr Ambrose’s bedroom. 

Stepping out, she saw there was a painting of a woman in mourning attire a few paces from her room. With darkness enveloping its subject, the figure’s features were obscured by the brushstrokes of the artwork’s impressionist style. It made the painting look hazy and unfinished. Ghastly. Morgana's stomach churned and tore her gaze away. She found that she couldn’t bear to look at the picture for too long. Instead she continued on her way, focusing on the wooden paneling of the floor.

She peered over the stair rails. At the foot of the stairs Merlin was waiting for her. He looked up at her, the light from the stained glass window projecting fragments of warm light on his kind face and brown waistcoat. Her breath hitched at the sight and she picked up her pace.

They walked past the living room which she had already seen upon entering the house. She took the time to survey the abundant display. The decor was confusing and was a mixture of objects and trinkets from around the world and from different time periods. The place was a treasure trove and she was a crow surrounded by shiny shiny things! 

She stood beside the old piano under the candle chandelier and felt like her eyes traveled the world as she took in the objects, which included among others: multiple paintings depicting landscapes and castles; Samurai armor encased in a glass box; a wooden totem pole from the Americas that stood next to the fireplace; classical sculptures among uncanny looking porcelain dolls that sat like a choir in a display cabinet; a persian rug under coffee table; and a few weapons from different parts of Europe and Eurasia mounted on the walls. 

“My god. When did you raid the British Museum?” she quipped.

Merlin chuckled. “My predecessors liked to collect things on their travels.” They approached a door guarded by the displayed medieval knight's armor. “This is my office, where I spend most of my time,” he said as he opened the door.

Merlin's study was right next to the living room, and similarly, it was a minimalist’s wonderful nightmare. The aroma of burnt candles and coffee filled the room. There were various apparatuses for alchemy among the books in the shelves behind the desk, colorful Turkish lanterns in one corner, and multiple taxidermied animals on display. It was filled with items that seemed like they were not supposed to go together but were somehow in harmony with each other. Hoarder’s junk, as others would consider them. But for Morgana it was oddly charming, like wonderful clutter in a house well lived in. Most interesting is an area dedicated to a myriad of religious idols and artifacts, each one seeming to compete for their place on the shrine.

Merlin took some keys from his desk drawer.

They finally entered the home library which was across the living room from Merlin’s office. The door had frosted glass panels that gave a glimpse of dark brown hues of the library’s interiors. 

Merlin opened the door. “This is where you’ll be working. But if you’d like, you can take some books and things to your bedroom upstairs to work there,” Merlin said.

“Oh, no need. This room is magnificent!” How much had she fantasized about having a home library like this once she got her own house? She turned to marvel at the three walls of bookshelves that reached up to the high intricate ceilings. The fourth wall had a large arched window, again with heavy draperies, but the top arch let in a few rays of sunlight. She drew the curtains back and the sun shone on the polished round table in the middle of the room. “I can get started working right away,” she said as she approached him. 

She watched as Merlin’s slender fingers glided over the leather bound books on a shelf. His hand stopped at a particularly thick one right next to a globe. 

“This is just one of the many books you can use in your research.” He pulled it out from the shelf and handed it to her. 

Morgana recognized it as a frequently cited work in her advanced research. 

“I’ll bring you some of the documents that I have to get you started. And please do join me for dinner later at 6 o'clock,” he said.

“Of course.” Morgana nodded, taking the book in his hand. He left the room.

She sank into the velvet Chesterfield chair, letting herself relax as she took in the sweet earthy scent of paper and leather that she had become well acquainted with in her line of work. She took out her notebook and set it on the table.

Merlin came back with a stack of old papers. He clutched the darkened and frayed edges as if hesitant. He cleared his throat. “These are just some of the manuscripts I have found. They are signed with the name Emrys.”

She took the yellowed papers and flipped through them carefully with curious eyes. “If this is what I think it is, it could be a primary source.” She met his eyes to find him smiling.

“Well Ms Le Fey, I hope you enjoy your stay here. I know it’s an old house. But she has kept all the things here and myself safe through the years,” he said before turning to leave her with the pages.

Morgana went to work with the book, meticulously jotting down the details in her notebook. She became engrossed with it quickly and jumped when the grandfather clock struck six. Morgana headed to the dining room.

When Morgana arrived at the dining room for supper two seats were already set on the polished wooden table. Candlelight reflected on the brass tray in the middle which held a roast pheasant.

“Ms. Le Fay.” Merlin appeared from the kitchen.

“I told you, you could call me Morgana.” She smiled.

He smiled back and nodded. “Morgana, you’re just in time for dinner.” He pulled a chair out for her. They both sit down and eat.

“So, Morgana,” he said, as if trying to get his tongue to get used to the name, “how did you become interested in history?”

“I guess you could say that I had always been interested in it. But what really inspired me to study it in an academic setting is the war. Everything was so confusing. So many lies spread. I saw how important it was to record events objectively.”

“It's great to have more people working towards that goal. Especially educated women like you, who are difficult to come by.”

Morgana sighed. “Yes. There have been special barriers for us. Especially after the war,” she trailed off, fighting the urge to rant. She didn't want to talk about the war anymore, but as a woman and frustrated historian everything seemed to go back to it.

“What about you?” she changed the subject, “You mentioned that you wanted to know more about Emrys to know your family history. How are you connected to him?” Morgana watched flames of the candelabra dance softly on the planes of his face.

“I think he might be one of my ascendants.”

“Really?” She leaned forward. “How do you know that?”

His brows furrowed. “I…I don't know…I guess I don't. But I found the manuscripts in this house that could give me some answers. I just don’t know what to make of them yet. But they bore the signature that purports to be Emrys,” he said, pouring himself some wine. “Most of all, I feel as if it is calling my name too. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so connected to something.”

Morgana tilted her head and watched as large shadows swayed on the wall behind him. Was he was even aware of how mysterious he was? She wasn't satisfied with his vague answers but did not question him further. Perhaps she would have time to probe him with her tireless curiosity later.

They flowed into an easy and polite conversation that slowed the pace of their dinner. They basked in the air of the warm glow of the room which would have been otherwise gloomy if it weren’t for their light chatter. Merlin just seemed pleased to have some company, even though it wouldn’t be convenient for Morgana to eat anywhere else in town anyway. But she enjoyed the dinner and conversation nonetheless, despite its awkward start.

Morgana swallowed the last piece of the bird and downed it with some wine. “Excuse me, Mr Ambrose, but I think I’ll continue working after dinner.” She got up.

He shook his head and stood up. “Please, Ms—Morgana. It’s quite late. You can rest now and just continue tomorrow.” He gave her a warm smile. “And you can call me Merlin,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

“Thank you, Merlin,” she smiled back, “And I really don’t mind. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep if I didn’t read just a bit more.” She mimicked his bow. “Good night Merlin,” she said and left.

Back at the library, as Morgana read more of the book, what she already knew in her preliminary research was confirmed. Early scholars were only able to record little bits and pieces about Emrys. Even so, as she took in as much information as she could, she lost track of time. 

The sun was long gone and silence filled the room. The only light source was the lamp she used. Gradually, she became more aware of the steady ticking of the grandfather clock. Then, what sounded like low humming came from under the round table. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the words in her book. But then she not only heard, but felt the humming sound in her chest. Her heart thumped as the sound morphed into what sounded like deep whispers, moans. She held her breath and slowly ducked to look underneath. 

There was nothing. Then silence. 

Must be the wind. She turned to look at the closed windows. The clock struck. She didn’t turn to look at it. It was time to go upstairs. She hastily arranged her things, jumped up and rushed to the door, half hoping she would run into Merlin outside the library. She found herself alone in the living room except for the bust statues and porcelain dolls that watched her every move. Perhaps she should have taken Merlin’s advice and rested right after dinner.

There was no light from Merlin’s study and the knight's armor outside seemed to warn her away. The moonlight from the stained glass window was all that guided her as she dashed up the stairs, her fingers gripping the rails to keep herself from tripping. 

The faint glow of the wall sconces did little to mitigate the disorienting darkness of the hallways. Morgana didn't know that a house could transform so much at night. It was as if the walls shifted, the hallways stretched longer, and the floors became slightly uneven. 

Without even glancing at the painting outside her room, she rushed to her door. She could only afford to be observant in the daytime. But she could almost feel its cold gaze trailing her as she walked past. She will bring her lantern to the library tomorrow.

Morgana winced at the shrill creaking noise her door made when she swung it open. She got in and leaned on her closed door with a sigh, trying to catch her breath. Soft moonlight streamed in from the window making her room feel cozier compared to the outside. As she climbed onto her welcoming bed, she had to chuckle at herself for running to her room like a little Victorian child afraid of the dark.

But the darkness chased her dreams anyway. That night, she dreamed of opulent castles, dragons, bloody wars, and an abyss.

Chapter Text

Morgana had never been superstitious, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house had eyes. Most nights not much of note happens and she genuinely enjoyed the quiet atmosphere the quaint place offered, shielded from the noise of the rest of the busy world. But there were some nights when the silence was like a forest going eerily quiet the moment you passed it. 

Lying on her bed, she blinked to the darkness of early morning. Shadows of the swaying trees reflected on the mirror. Was one of the shadows a person? Residuals of her dream again. She was parched from it, as if she had been running in them. 

She got up to get a glass of water downstairs. Her door made that shrill creaking noise again that cut through the still silence of the hallway. Faint moonlight from her windows fell on the pale face of the painting of the mourning lady, and Morgana turned to gaze straight ahead. It was a good two hours before the sun would come up. Despite turning on the wall sconces, she still had to feel her way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She had been in this house for a few days. The darkness forced her to learn the dimensions of the house quickly—almost better than she knew her own home. Six steps from her room to the stairs. Eight steps on the stairs to the white dragon. Another seven to the ground floor. Turn right, five steps to the dining room. There's a doorway to the kitchen.

Merlin did not like using electricity too much, or at all (electric bills must be unconscionable nowadays). The curtains in this house remained down and closed so even in day time the interiors were still shrouded in darkness. Was he a vampire? A creature of the night? He might as well be, with the way he roamed the halls like a floating phantom. She would just have to put up with Merlin's little eccentricities for a few weeks or so until she gets her bag. She finished her glass of water, put it in the sink and went back on her way.

She was halfway up the stairs when all the lights went out. Damn bills. Anticipating this, she felt her pockets for her matchbox and struck a match. The flame illuminated only a few feet in front of her. It made dancing shadows on the walls that brought a sense of unease. She ascended the stairs, careful not to put out her flame or to trip herself, her light footsteps on the creaking floorboards filling the silence. Two more steps to the top of the stairs.

There was a draft and the flame flickered, as if someone had passed behind. There were no open windows but chills pricked Morgana’s arm like she sensed eyes on her again. Merlin was an early riser but never this early. How relieved she felt for a second thinking she wasn’t the only one awake in the house. But she looked around and she was alone in the hallway except for the bust statue…and that ghastly painting. 

Paralyzed, she found herself in front of the portrait of the mourning lady. It was made to be seen in dim candlelight. Did the woman in the painting become closer to the foreground? Morgana was pulled toward it and she found herself inching closer, as if the lady beckoned her, as if she wanted to be seen, to have the features on her pale face be deciphered. 

In the flickering flame, the painting became clearer and clearer, the brushstrokes appearing more defined, as if it was closer to being finished. It revealed a detail Morgana never had the courage to stare into: a pair of glassy red-rimmed eyes. Has she always looked like that? Like she’s holding back anger? Only a few inches away, Morgana stared at the lady and she stared back. Was she still dreaming? The sadness and dread in the painting seeped into her the longer she stared. The smell of the burning match filled the stuffy air and Morgana couldn’t blink, couldn’t will herself to look away. 

“Damn it!” She hissed when the match flame went out and singed her fingers. She and the mourning lady were left in pitch black. She gasped at the sight in front of her, frozen for a few seconds before rushing back to her room. Two long strides to her door. Three to her bed. 

She swore, in those few seconds of darkness after the match flame went out, there were two glowing dots where the painting’s eyes should be, boring right into hers. She clutched one of the pillows close to her chest.

It’s an old dark house. Sometimes we see things. 

She dragged her feet to her bathroom sink, splashed water onto her face and observed her reflection. The water dripped down her chin like tears. She looked out the narrow bathroom window. Just a couple more hours before sunrise.

The keys of the old typewriter echoed in the library as Morgana typed away, recording her new findings. The more she found out about Emrys (which was not much) the more she hated him and his secrets. He was said to have immense power but then he was a mostly passive character. As she read the books on the subject and the many nameless people in the passages, she could see the events play out before her in a way that she never had before when reading other historical literature. It was as if her mind filled the gaps of information about him. She just didn’t have any basis. 

The legends surrounding Emrys were full of adventure and grand prophecies that have yet to come to fruition. It was all so fantastical, whimsical but still so obscure that she was starting to doubt if Emrys actually existed, and that all her effort was for nothing because she had been chasing air all along. There was a risk that she would not be compensated for her work. Surely Merlin would be kind enough to give her a just sum for her earnest efforts? But she wouldn’t be satisfied with her work. She had to dig deeper, find other sources.

She took the delicate paper of the manuscript between her fingers. It was written in an old language. Some words were familiar but the rest were in a forgotten language that could not be translated from any source. This time, it was something about a magic crystal that could help see into the future. She had to find a way to make sense of it. That was why she was more lost when she went to Merlin in his study to ask for more details. 

“Where did you find the manuscript?”

The smell of candles hung in the air. He paused and gestured around. “This is a big house, Morgana, and yet, it is bigger than it seems. Houses have the capacity to contain as much as the human brain,” he said as walked around his desk over to her. 

Why was he being so cryptic? If he wanted to record events it was important that she knew everything. When she asked for his family tree, for details about relatives, ascendants, living or dead, he said he only knew his parents, and that they never mentioned anyone else related to them. When she asked about his parents, he didn’t say much—just that they used to live there and cared for the house. Maybe it was for privacy reasons. Still, Morgana had to hide her frustration.

“That’s strange. You don’t have any photographs or portraits of your family on display? Even of your parents? Unless the painting outside my room is one of them. She gives me the creeps once in a while,” she said.

He shook his head. “What painting?” he asked.

She took in his perplexed face and shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said, a bit embarrassed to be scared of a painting. Instead, she scanned his study and turned her attention to Merlin's collection of idols. The sun cast its rays at an angle that it hit Merlin’s collection of Turkish lamps, reflecting fragmented colorful lights all around the room and onto the display.

“Are you religious?” she asked. She had to ask something—anything to extract more from him.

He shook his head. “No. But when I was younger I went on a sort of soul searching journey, you could say. The existential woes of being a new adult. Never gave me what I was looking for. But I could now see why it appealed to so many. The idea that someone so unfathomably powerful was in control of your fate, looking out for you. Even though I don’t necessarily subscribe to those beliefs myself, it gave me a unique sense of comfort, a reprieve.”

Morgana had always looked at religion from an outsider's point of view, never venturing too near to keep a tight grasp on her objectivity. It was her job after all as a historian to be the observer, and not to be the subject. 

There was a small statue of a man in monks’ robes, separate from the rest of the figurines. “Seems you have a favorite,” she said as she eyed it.

He gestured to it. “Saint Anthony of Padua,” he said, eyes glinting.

Well, he was definitely different. God. Who was she kidding? He’s insane. Did he really need all those images of gods and deities he didn’t even believe in? And not a single photograph or portrait of any of his family, even on his desk? She felt a bit guilty for thinking this. He had a right to his privacy and confusing exercise of his freedom of religion. It was just frustrating for her job and her relentless curiosity. 

She had to find another way to get the information she needed. Her visit was not as fruitful as she hoped. She just discovered that Merlin was stranger than he already was.

Perhaps as a byproduct of her research Morgana has dreams of living in a castle. In those dreams, she sees him there, a constant presence. Tonight she was up in a castle witnessing a bloody execution down in the courtyard. Then accused of being a witch. Next thing she knew she was hiding a little boy in her room from guards who for some reason sought to execute him too. 

But there was one part that kept her the most awake, the one where she couldn’t breathe. There was a man reaching out to her, and she had tried to slap his hands away. The images were hazy, like an unfinished painting, but she could still feel everything: the burning in her throat, the tears pricking her eyes, the sting of betrayal, and the numbness taking over—until she finally succumbed in the man’s arms. That was the moment she woke up, taking in a big gulp of air like a baby fresh out the womb. 

In her dreams, time seemed to span for a long time, perhaps months, even though she only dreams them for only a few minutes. Her nightmares were nothing new but since staying in this house, they have become more creative. She chalked it all up to reading so much about Emrys. How much can you actually read about an old man from that old time period before it blended into your dreams, creating rich, detailed and fantastical worlds where dragons and magic exist? But why did they have to be so tragic every time?

The moon was shining bright from her window when she woke up from the nightmare. It gave her the courage to go outside her room to see it from the balcony. It would be nice to get some fresh air after being smothered in her dreams. She opened the door to the balcony and took a deep breath when she found Merlin there, looking at the garden below. She approached him slowly. The awkwardness of their first meeting and knowing each other had worn off. 

They had a rough start. Over time, despite his eccentric and frustratingly aloof nature, Merlin warmed up to her and had become a little more talkative in their dinners discussing Morgana’s sparse findings. Even while being alone with him in a gloomy house, Merlin and Morgana, in a concerted effort, cultivated a comfortable friendship. To his credit, Morgana felt safe with Merlin. She could not say that about a lot of men. It was a sad reality as a woman but few from the opposite sex could be counted among those with whom Morgana felt safe being alone with. The ones that come to mind she could barely count on one hand—and they definitely did not include her colleagues back at university. It was something that made her feel apprehensive at the start of her job, but thankfully it was easy to live with Merlin alone in a considerably big house. 

She remembered that time he almost fell flat on his face when he stumbled into the library, yellowed pages in his grasp flying across the room like falling leaves. “Here are your manuscripts for the day,” he had said with a bashful smile after they picked them all up and handed them to her. No. He couldn’t be dangerous. Besides, it was she who convinced him to work for him and live here. He never lured her in.

More than that, Merlin actually listened to her in a way her colleagues never did. He attentively held on to her every word as if it was the most important thing in that moment. She had to admit, having dinner with him in the evening was always the highlight of her day. She even found his cryptic statements beguiling.

But tonight she saw him on the balcony and even with his back turned to her, the sorrow was radiating off of him. He was in his night clothes, his palms on the railing, still as a statue. He must be in one of those trances again. 

“Are you alright?” She asked, voice soft.

His glassy eyes were more lifeless than his taxidermy animals.

“You’re doing it again.” She came closer. 

“What?” Merlin looked at her, dazed, like he hadn’t registered that she was there. 

“Staring out into nothing. Lost in thought.” 

He looked down, brows furrowed, as if caught doing something embarrassing.

“It’s alright to feel down sometimes. We all do, especially men like you. I mean—the war did a lot to the mind too.” It was the first time in a while that she brought up the subject. He must have participated in the last war. WWII. That would explain his sudden and more than frequent waves of sadness, his stares of emptiness—what they called shell-shock. 

He finally opened up a little about it. “I almost died a few times. Mortally wounded from an explosion. But I somehow made it out alive. Can’t say the same for most of my friends.” He had a pained look in his eyes, like he was still in the trenches. He must have been stronger than he appeared, having survived something like that. But it seems his mind never recovered from it.

He continued, “It all happened so fast but when I was there it all felt too slow. Everything that happened, all the cruelty, the cities left in ruins, the bodies buried, their faces. The details escape me now.” A cloud of puff came out as he sighed, his knuckles white on the railing. “It’s like I can’t even remember what I was fighting for…” he trailed off. “But I remember how I felt. Sometimes it just hits out of nowhere and I don’t even know what triggers it. Do you know that feeling?”

“Yes. I understand…” Oh, does she know it. Morgana felt it. Through him. She felt it whenever she passed Merlin as he roamed the dimly lit halls like a phantom, eyes empty. Felt it when his shoulders slumped at the dinner table like he had the weight of the world on him. Saw it when she looked at him and saw the eyes of a man who has seen more than a few wars, eyes filled with secrets that wanted to claw their way out. 

There was an entirely different element she found in his melancholy eyes. His sorrow was a black hole: empty, endless, and ancient, consuming all light around it. She looked at the man in front of her, but all she saw was a ghost. 

A part of Morgana wanted to break him free from this bleak dark prison that was his home. She fought the urge to reach out and squeeze his hand just to offer some comfort. How many people had he even seen, much less talked to after the war? A house like this usually required a staff to maintain it. And here he was, doing everything alone. She wondered if he was merely forced to take care of this house as its sole inheritor, but she didn't want to pry. 

“And what brought you out here so late at night?” he asked.

Her fingers tapped on the railing. “Couldn’t sleep,” she hesitated, “I…I had a nightmare.” Admitting it made Morgana feel childish. It has always been something she was ashamed of since she was a child. And now her employer was going to think she was a freak. Maybe she should be thankful that he’s just as weird, if not weirder.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He had opened up to her. It was only fair that she did the same, right? She leaned forward on the balcony railing, gripping the metal bar as if fighting the urge to peer over it dangerously further. “I dreamt that someone killed me.” Her gaze was cast down on the overgrown garden below.

“Who killed you?”

“I don’t remember.” She turned to him. 

“Well, do you remember what they looked like?”

“He looked…like…” Morgana tilted her head as she searched his face. 

They both held their breath as her gaze lingered on him, as if she was memorizing his face. She squeezed her eyes shut and her head jerked. There was a flash of throbbing pain behind her eyes, like Merlin’s gaze stabbed through her skull and brain.

Merlin reached out. “Morgana. Are you alright—”

“Yes, yes,” she said and waved a hand dismissively, trying to hide that she was taking short breaths. “I’m sorry. Sometimes my dreams give me a headache.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “You must think I'm crazy.” 

“No, having nightmares doesn't make you crazy.” He shook his head. “Well whoever that man was in your dreams, that’s all he is. Just a man.” 

She nodded, ignoring the doubt that took root in her stomach.

“That is unless you believe in—what’s his name? Freud? Maybe your dream had some type of meaning,” he quipped.

“God, I hope not.” The idea was grim. She had a lot of nightmares—maybe more than the average person. The thought that all of them had meanings that could impact her waking life was not a possibility she wanted to consider. No. It had to be pseudoscience made up by some incompetent grifter. “Do you believe dreams have any meaning?”

“Perhaps sometimes I would like to believe so. At least the good dreams,” he said, looking at her intently. “Wouldn't that make life more magical?” 

Morgana smiled faintly. What a silly man. He was wearing a loose faded blue shirt. A rare sight. He was usually in his white shirts and dark waistcoats (a bit archaic even for the time). As their eyes locked she found herself leaning in closer. The moonlight cast a ghostly cool glow on the planes of his handsome face. Her breath hitched. “Are you sure we’ve never met before?” she asked.

Merlin cocked his head and considered her for a moment. “No. I’m afraid not.”

She surprised them both when she gently took his wrist in her hand. “I feel like I know you somehow,” Morgana said, feeling his quickening pulse against her fingers. It was a small world. Perhaps she had seen him at University? The National Library? A museum? 

He glanced at their hands then into her eyes. He merely shook his head. “If I had met you before, I’m sure I would remember.” If he had seen her before, how could he forget those eyes? Enchanting, eager eyes that were searching his sorrowful ones. 

A gust of wind reminded Morgana that she was clad only in her nightgown. She flushed as she suppressed a shiver. From the cold, she told herself—and not from the way he was looking at her.

She cleared her throat. “You should go get some rest now,” she whispered.

Merlin nodded. “You too. Good night, Morgana.” He patted her hand which she realized was still on his wrist.

She let her hand fall away, worried that she had crossed some boundary with the touch. She walked away, giving him one last look. 

He was leaning back leisurely on the balcony rail, backlit by the moon, and although it was dim, his soft smile was visible. She enjoyed the moment of tranquility they shared in the still night after she just had that awful nightmare and after breaking Merlin out of one of his sadness spells. He may not know it, but seeing him and talking to him after those visions dispelled some of her anxiety. Satisfied he felt better, she nodded and shuffled back to her room.

Under gray cloudy skies, bodies in chainmail were scattered across barren lands. She was lying among them. 

Before her was an ominous old man with a long gray beard holding a wooden staff.

“Is this what you really wanted, Morgana?” he asked.

Morgana gasped as she woke up disoriented, finding herself in the library. She rubbed her cheek where she thinks the leather-bound book might have left a mark. She had fallen asleep while working. In the weak light of the gas lamp, the grandfather clock in the corner said it was close to midnight.

There was faint humming under the table again. Tingles crawled on the back of her neck and she rubbed it. It was time to go to bed. 

She was near the door when she hesitated. Behind the misty frosted window of the library door, a shadow was standing there, stationary. She opened the door to the darkness of the living room. There was no one outside the door. She turned on the light switch. No electricity. Did Merlin forget to pay the bill again? Her weak gas lamp lit the way as she shuffled toward the stairs when she stopped. 

The door to Merlin’s study was slightly ajar, as if in invitation. She knocked but there was no response. She put her hand on the brass doorknob and opened it. 

“Merlin?”

She entered and her light fell on the hanging lamps, scattering its hues across the room. It was like being in a cathedral with the illuminated religious images looking like they were judging her, St. Anthony being the only gentle face among them. That must be why she felt like she was being watched. Besides the statues, it seemed she was alone. 

This was her chance to look for something, some clue that could shed more light on why Merlin was the way he was. The scent of ink was more present as she approached the desk. There was a piece of paper with a date written at its top, but blank besides a few dark blotches from the fountain pen sitting on it. She raised her gas lamp to the bookshelf behind the chair. She could almost see him at his desk, reading about mystical things—science, alchemy, psychology—living in his own little world, tinkering with his thingamabobs. 

She opened a few drawers, finding more notebooks, pens, and other useless trinkets Merlin liked to collect. She made sure to carefully put them back the way she found them. She pulled out a worn notebook and flipped through it. It had dates on it. A journal? A thrill went through her, followed by guilt. They were filled with events and mentions of items that seemed to have no significance, and the ramblings of a depressed man. It seemed that he was recording things about himself, like an observer of someone else’s life. Sure, it was in her nature as a historian to be curious. But surely this was crossing the line. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from scanning the wrinkled pages, looking into Merlin’s head through his words. And she would have found out more if it weren’t for the damn door closing suddenly.

The sound of the door clicking closed was clear in the still night. She jumped and shoved the notebook back in the drawer. 

There was someone standing by the window and it was too dark to tell if he was facing her. She swallowed and thought of an excuse why she was there.

“Merlin?” She approached him, her lamp held in front of her. “I’m sorry, I—I left my pen here.” Yes. That was why she was just going through his drawers and reading his journal. 

As the figure came into view she stopped in her tracks and gasped. They appeared to have long, wispy hair. It couldn’t be Merlin. No. In front of her, illuminated by her gas lamp was the face of an old man with a long white beard. He was looming over her, as if warning her away. Her insides were frozen. Does she know him? She stepped back, the lamp shaking in her grasp.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “It's not real,” she whispered , “It's just an old house.”

She opened her eyes again. He was still there, eyes glowing pale yellow. A familiar kind of fear swirled in her gut.

Her lamp crashed to the floor. Everything went dark. But his eyes were still glowing.

She ran, pulled the door open, and bolted out of the room straight to the front door. Her feet pounded on the wooden floorboards and she slammed the heavy doors shut behind her. She huffed, closing her eyes, but she could still see his cold empty ones. Were her dreams bleeding into her waking life?

“It’s not real. It’s not real,” she repeated. “I’m not crazy.” 

She opened her eyes, taking deep breaths. She was in the garden. Faint footsteps behind her slowly got closer. She turned her head slightly in the direction of the sound. A hand fell on her shoulder and she froze. She whirled around.

It was Merlin.

She stepped back, away from his grasp, darting eyes scanning over his pale moonlit face. Was he a ghost too? She whispered, voice trembling, “You’re...not real...” 

He carefully approached her and put his hand out. “I’m here.”

She took another step back, knees shaking.

“Morgana…” He took her arm gently. “I’m here,” he said.

Dazed, she inhaled deeply. She grabbed his wrist and it was as if her feet touched the ground, anchored after floating aimlessly. 

“I heard something fall and the front doors slam. What’s wrong?” He asked, concerned.

“I—I thought I saw someone.” 

He narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

“In…your study,” she blurted. And now she had to explain why she had been there. “I thought you were there when I came in. I guess I was just seeing things.” She shook her head, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. “You’ve never experienced anything strange living here?”

“Me? Not really. But I get it. I’ve heard from guests that this place feels ironically more…lively at night. So people don’t usually stay after dark.”

That concerned her. But she dismissed it as the guests (including her) being disoriented by images and sculptures in the candlelit dark of an old house.

“I heard a silly theory that ghosts are a little protective over the people that live in the house. But don’t worry, I’ll let them know you mean no harm,” he quipped, trying to inject some humor. 

She didn’t believe in such things. But now she had just faced what people would call a “ghost” and she didn’t know what to think.

She smirked. “Must be one of your statues. I think I’m just tired,” she said with a weak smile, to make them both forget she had just been running out of the house like she had witnessed a murder.

“You know, if you’re still not used to this place, it’s always an option for you to go home somewhere else after your work,” he said.

She had contemplated if it would be worth it to leave the house after working and go home. But it would just not be feasible. She lived in another town. The apartment was part of her compensation but sometimes she wondered if living there was the price she paid. Besides, most nights here were more than pleasant. And right when she develops a sense of comfort living here something ominous like this happens. 

“Perhaps you could take a break, have a change of environment,” he said, but his expression made her think that he would be disappointed if she agreed to leave. The way his eyes fell at the thought was noticeable.

But maybe she had to leave this house. Even just for a little while. She nodded. “I do need new sources.” She looked back at the front doors, as if expecting to see the old man there, peering through the dark gap. She looked back at Merlin. “I’m surprised you haven’t gone crazy living alone here.”

He shrugged. “Who says I haven't?” 

She chuckled. She could agree with that. “Maybe we both have.”

He just smiled.

The smell of fresh soil in the garden helped bring her back. The faint glow of the mushrooms on the old logs was visible, its spores flying in the wind. Merlin held the front door, waiting for her to enter. She wasn’t being held captive. She could just leave. And then what? She could go back to her old drudgery of a life where nothing waited for her, back to organizing books in the library for scraps, devoid of any intellectual stimulation. Back to the world where she never belonged.

She looked at the facade of the house. It was towering over her, waiting for her. 

This house is bigger than it seems.

There had always been something missing in her life. In the back of her mind she had been waiting her whole life for something like this house. She craved the adrenaline rush of one day unraveling its old secrets. She wouldn't let a few childish nightmares and tired hallucinations scare her away from this opportunity. Because they weren’t real—but she was. Yet the uncertainty when she searched Merlin’s eyes lingered. A little seed of doubt planted in the back of her head. 

Despite the unease that settled in her stomach, she held her head up as she stepped back into the darkness, back into the jaws of the beast Merlin held open for her.

Chapter Text

Emrys. In the back of her mind Morgana swears she has known this name all her life, almost as well as she knows her own name. Was this what Merlin felt too?

Her dark hair draped around the browned pages of a heavy tome in the old public library. She wasn’t at the dark house for once and she had almost exhausted the history books in Merlin’s library (most of the rest were science and medical books). Morgana took note of how Emrys is perceived by different people. Those who believed in the Old Religion think Emrys was a  savior type of figure destined to restore magic in the world, that he was still here and safeguards nature and vast valuable knowledge, a shape-shifter that can take the form of whatever society needed at any given time. On the other side there are those of the opinion that the old religion was a pagan one and that Emrys’ father was an incubus. Then there were those who believed he never existed at all. Academics say he is a myth. Priests say he is a devil. Druids say he is god-like. 

There were patterns of similarities to her dreams. The conflict between people with magic, bigots who were suspicious of them, the purge, the massacres, the wars that endured for years. As if she had been right there, she filled in the blanks: when she was reprimanded by the king, an oppressive male presence, for speaking up; when she hid in alcoves; when she fidgeted in her seat at the throne room searching the eyes of a certain man for comfort; when she drove a dagger into the heart of a woman on an altar; brought a knight back from the dead; led an army into battle. Although her dreams were hazy, she could vaguely remember most of the events, even see herself in them. And she felt truly insane. But she was not here to research her dreams. She was here for Emrys.

To kill two birds with one stone, she searched the town archives for Merlin’s identity but could find nothing. Maybe he came from a different town? But there would be records of his old house. Her eyelids drooped from fruitlessly sifting through the records. It was as if Merlin didn’t exist. She decided she would sneak back into his study to find more about him.

The best she could do in the library was find the etymology of the name Ambrose in a book about Greek history. She snatched her pen and notebook and scribbled the meaning of the name.

Morgana was back in Merlin's old house. Once she went to sleep in her bedroom, like clockwork, she died in a dream again. But this time it was a sword to her stomach. She remembered it like a memory and she started calling it that in her mind, absurd as it was. She was sure she had never experienced dying before. And certainly not in a violent way, with someone looking into her eyes while she was dying—that someone being the one who drove the blade into her. Yet it had felt so intimate, how frantically she had searched cold blue eyes for a morsel of comfort while she took her last breaths in her killer’s arms.

She woke up and it was back to work for her. Another nightmare, another Tuesday. 

Her eyes zigzagged through a page in the manuscript in an effort to pour as much concentration into it as possible. She had to get that nightmare out of her mind.

At the corner of her eye there was a dark blob on the page. She squinted at it more closely. It was a fingerprint. She was about to dismiss it as the prints of someone else who had held it but then she noticed how similar it was to how the written ink sat on the page. She turned it face down. It bled through the same way as the rest of the text. She paused. Could it be the fingerprints of the one who wrote them? Could it be Emrys’s fingerprints? 

The sun was low and Morgana’s feet took her to the kitchen but it seemed she was early. She found Merlin scraping the scales off of a large fish. Despite the nauseating stench of the entrails, she watched, transfixed, as Merlin worked silently in an almost automatic manner. In stark contrast with the dark surroundings, the single yellow lightbulb above cast harsh shadows on Merlin's focused face. He raised his cleaver and slammed it down, cutting the fish’s head off. 

She didn’t know he could arouse such fear in her. But in that moment she felt small when Merlin looked in her direction with empty eyes for a few seconds before he turned back to the chopping board. He grasped in one of his hands another fish, this one still flapping. In his other hand, a long thin knife glinted as it pierced through the live fish’s belly and it made a squelching noise. Morgana's stomach churned and she turned away. She left so she didn’t have to see its guts burst out as it slowly stopped moving. 

She was a few steps away from the kitchen when there was sharp cursing and grunting from the kitchen. After hesitating for a few seconds she sprinted back and Merlin’s left hand was bleeding from the open wound across his palm. Morgana froze, observing the scene like it was a gruesome car accident. Merlin’s blood dripped onto the board. The sharp smell of the fish’s spilled entrails, its blood and Merlin’s indistinguishable from each other. She was snapped out of it when she registered Merlin telling her of his first aid kit at his office in one of the desk drawers. 

When she rushed back Merlin was leaning on the countertop. He had already washed his wound. 

She approached carefully. “Please, let me.” She held Merlin’s wrist, feeling his pulse, ignoring the dreadful feeling that settled in her after what she had witnessed. It had been eerily similar to her dream which flashed in her mind.

“I’ve done this again and again,” he gestured to the bloodbath on the wooden board, “It’s a mystery why I’m still so clumsy.”

“You really are a peculiar man, Merlin. One minute you're as calm as the lake you visit every day the next you're having a near death experience from fighting a fish and losing.” Sometimes he had the demeanor of someone experienced, graceful, wise beyond his years. And then he would revert to being a klutz.

Merlin's mouth curled up at the corners, like he wasn’t bleeding profusely. “Well I’m glad you’re here to save me—from the fish.”

Morgana felt her cheeks heat up and gave him a nervous laugh. With shaking hands, she tried to wrap up his palm (she was horrible at it). She was very aware of Merlin's eyes on her as her black hair fell around their hands while she worked. She tried to ignore the pungent smell surrounding them. His pulse was steady beneath her fingers and it comforted her more than it did him.

He pulled away when he saw her struggling. “It’s alright.” He was perfectly capable of bandaging himself. 

“And where did you learn to do that?” she asked, watching him wrap his hand.

His brows furrowed, as if trying to remember. “From the war.”

She looked down. “Of course.” 

They ate in the dining room after they found a can of meat in Merlin’s dusty cupboards, the mutilated fish abandoned on its chopping block. After a few spoonfuls, Morgana turned her nose up and decided she had enough. 

Merlin was resting, bloody hand on his lap while Morgana chatted about what she found in the library. 

She read from her notebook. “Emrys, a name of Welsh origin, meaning ‘immortal’.” 

“Of course,” Merlin said, like he’d heard it a hundred times before.

Morgana tapped her pen on her notes and smirked. “Here’s an interesting one.” She handed him the notebook. 

Merlin’s still bloody hand held the pages. “Emrys is the Welsh counterpart of the Greek name Ambrose ,” he read aloud, “The word is derived from the word Amrita. Sanskrit for ‘immortality’.” Merlin pondered. “Do you often go on tangents when researching?” he asked.

“When studying history, you’ll find that a lot of things are connected, even the most unlikely things.”

“And is that what you also have notes about my name?”

“Everything is connected. And this one more explicitly than not.”

Morgana observed his calm demeanor in the candlelight. Before he could flip through the pages she grabbed the notebook from his hands in a not so graceful way. Merlin arched a brow but let it go. She almost forgot his hand was wounded but he did not flinch.

Morgana looked down from her bedroom window. Right outside the metal gates, Merlin’s hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets, his gaze somewhere far away. Does he ever get tired of wearing that downcast expression? Morgana watched as he went out into the street for his early morning walk. She tapped her foot as she planned in her head what she was about to do.

As soon as Merlin was out of sight Morgana raced down the stairs, pausing briefly in front of the stained glass dragon as if in reverence. She opened the door to his study. She immediately went through his desk drawers. Brow damp with sweat and heart racing she looked for what she could in the faint light of early morning. 

As the minutes went by while she searched drawer after drawer, shelf after shelf, she thought she must be overthinking. Maybe there really was nothing interesting to be found out about this inscrutable man. Maybe she was going too far, going through his desk and belongings, looking for some clue to his past. But why did she have this irresistible compulsion to find out more? Her curiosity was a constant itch in her skull she had to scratch.

The door opened. 

“Morgana?”

She jumped, head whipping toward the door. “Merlin.” She didn’t expect him to be back so soon. It's only been a few minutes since he left. She wished she had the ability to teleport in that moment. “Where have you been? I was just looking for you.”

“I left my umbrella. It was getting cloudy.” He closed the door behind him and eyed her. “Are you looking for something?” 

She put on her best smile. “I came here to ask you for more pages of the manuscript. I need to compare them to what I found in the library.” 

“Are you finished with the ones I already gave you?”

“I’ve made some progress. But I think I need more to get a bigger picture.”

“You need not worry about the pace at which you work. I will give you those pages, a few at a time. There is no need to rush.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you came from one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Known for their excellent research, high rankings,” he stepped forward, “and integrity. Right?”

“Of course. One of the best.” Why was he suddenly actually acting like her employer? Her stomach flipped. Losing his trust could mean losing her job too. Mind racing for what to do, she decided her only recourse right now was to change the topic. She turned to his altar. “Patron saint of lost things.” Morgana said, looking at the figurine of the saint.

“Hm?” 

“St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things. I read in the library.”

Merlin blinked at her. 

“I’ve always wondered why it was your favorite. Lost things. Is that why you keep so many things in your house?” she asked. She knew men’s egos enjoyed it when they were asked about themselves. But he only seemed uncomfortable, eyes unsteady, as if looking for something in the air.

“I guess,” he answered.

“To fill some kind of void? But there is still something missing?” 

He did not answer. He merely looked at her like he was waiting for something. 

Morgana caught sight of his hand. “Your hand. It’s healed!” she grabbed his wrist and ran her fingers over Merlin’s palm, not a scratch on it. “But you just cut it last night.”  She observed him intently and thought she saw his ears turn pink.

“I must have really good medicine.” He shrugged and she dropped his hand. 

“Interesting.” Her nose crinkled. “You still smell like fish though,” she said as she opened the door.

He exhaled as if mildly offended. “I was just—at the lake, so it's probably that.”

“You were?” She raised a brow. He could not have gone there then back here that fast. But who was she to judge? She was lying to him too and for a more serious matter. “Whatever you say, Mr Ambrose.” She smirked over her shoulder and left.

Merlin stood there wondering what just happened. He took a whiff of his coat.

Once Morgana left the study, Merlin approached the altar, opened a drawer hidden under its cloth and dug through its junk. Under its false bottom were the torn pages of the manuscript. They contained the name ‘Morgana Pendragon’. He sighed in relief when he found them still secure in their place.

‘What are the chances?’ he thought. He didn’t know what it all meant yet. He didn't think much of it at first. It definitely was not a common name. Something about Morgana gave off that if she found those pages she would be suspicious of him, if not be creeped out and pack her bags immediately. 

Everything is connected . He thought of her words. He would hold on to these pages until she was ready to see them, or rather, until he himself was ready to show them to her.

Morgana closed the door to her bedroom and pulled out from her jacket Merlin’s journal which she managed to take right before Merlin caught her.

She flipped through the journal, scanning Merlin’s clumsy penmanship and was disappointed. No information about his past. Barely any details except his drudgery of daily activities in taking care of the house, about his friend Lance, who delivers him food and groceries, and doors that needed repair. He wrote like a person living on autopilot. What a bore. But there were also pages with staggered sentences, and one phrase or even word notes that didn’t make sense to her, like it was some type of cipher.

She wrote some details down in her notebook. She would put the notebook back later and just prayed to every god the old apparition would not be there waiting for her. 

She dropped her notebook next to the manuscript in frustration. On the desk it opened on the page with the Ambrose note, the one Merlin read aloud at dinner. Next to it was the most puzzling page of the manuscript she had come across so far. In each of them lying face up were two marks: the supposed inky fingerprint of Emrys on the manuscript and Merlin’s bloody one on the notebook. Completely identical.

Chapter Text

Emrys and Merlin’s fingerprints were identical. Morgana gripped the marked page in her hand, crumpling the sides.

Had she finally found it, the reason why he always dodged her questions, why he never gave her a direct answer? That Merlin was a fraud and the manuscript was fabricated and he just needed a legitimate researcher to validate it?

Should she pretend she never saw it and just quit? Then he’d find another researcher and taint the historical records with forgeries and fanciful garbage.

Her reputation was on the line. Was it enough to confront him about it? Was it even enough for her to draw her conclusion? It was her word against her employer and the owner of the house. If she’s not careful she’d be dragged first in line for a lobotomy. She needed more.

She kept the manuscript page neatly folded and tucked between the pages of her notebook and shoved it in her pocket.

She stepped out of her room to find the unsettling painting outside her door. It never failed to make her feel ill. She came back with a white sheet and draped it over the frame of the painting, the figure's eyes casting her an accusing glare. She held her breath while she fixed the sheet with trembling hands until the painting was covered completely. Surely Merlin wouldn’t notice. She hoped he’d understand.

She noticed a detail that she had never paid attention to before. Behind the painting there were dented lines on the walls that formed what looked like the shape of a slim door.

This house is bigger than it seems.

She ran her fingers over the lines. There must be a way to open it. She pushed against it but huffed as it would not budge. She would come back to it later. Every strange thing she found in this house could lead her closer to the truth.

From the way that he was, perhaps she should have expected his ridiculous proposition about Emrys when Merlin came into the library with a stack of books and journals.

“You think Emrys is still alive?” she raised a brow.

“There are people who do. And I want to look into it. I know this might sound insane, but there are very detailed accounts of interactions with a strange man who doesn’t seem to age. He seems to always be able to associate himself with royals around the world. But there is some debate whether the people they speak of are one and the same person.” Merlin claims.

Morgana observed Merlin intently as he spoke, the shrug of his slim shoulders, his long pale fingers on the browned manuscript pages. Her gaze lingered. Out of suspicion, she convinced herself.

The urge to confront him about the fingerprints clawed at her throat.

“Who would think that?” she asked.

“I’ve heard that is what the druids think. They believe he is some sort of guardian to magic. They are difficult to find. There are people you would know your entire life and never know they were a druid.”

It was true. They don’t write down their teachings and it's not just because it was their culture. They were being hunted. In the past, possession of those scriptures could get them killed. And the practice stuck. They were so evasive people thought they didn’t exist anymore if they ever did.

“And you share this belief?” she asked.

Merlin looked at her as if bewildered she would suggest that.

He cleared his throat. “Well, Things we can’t see but are there. Just because there’s no evidence of something doesn’t mean it’s nonexistent. I know your line of work requires you to be as objective as possible. But I think, if one should hope to remain sane, they should believe in at least one impossible thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Absolute objectivity can drive you insane,” he said.

“If that’s the case, you must be the sanest person in the world.” Just another quirk of his. Morgana was aware of the dangers of a too open mind, too willing to listen to insane ideas. They end up manipulated, in cults or stuck in the prison of their own minds. Morgana just had to know what other insane ideas Merlin believed in or was open to.

Somehow, Morgana managed to convince Merlin to go to the museum with her. She had to observe him outside of his house-shaped cage. She needed more to go on. She said she had to go there to see the artifacts from the era when Emrys was believed to have lived.

“I don't know this town well with its winding streets. I’ll need someone who knows this place to guide me,” Morgana had said with a sweet smile. Merlin had agreed easily. She didn’t want to endure any more looks from people wondering why she was a woman sojourning the town alone.

It would be good to leave the house for a day. Especially after what had happened that morning.

Morgana had woken up in the early hours of the morning agitated. She had found the candle on her desk was lit with a steady flame that glared back at her. It bathed the room in harsh yellow brightness.

A chill gripped her and she tried to recall what she did the night before. She knew herself. She would never leave a candle lit before she went to sleep no matter how tired she was. It was one of those rules that her mother had drilled into her head. She snuffed it out quickly and waited patiently in her bed for the sun to rise. Were random lighted candles another thing she had to get used to in this house?

Morgana walked out of her room in her bluegreen dress, cream coat and made her way to the stairs. There she saw Merlin’s slender silhouette, dark against the light from the stained glass window. He was freshly shaven, in his white shirt and brown overcoat, his hair neatly combed and styled. Merlin looked up at her with twinkling eyes.

Morgana’s heartbeat quickened at the sight. He looked like a gentleman now instead of a recluse who locked himself in an old house.

When they crossed the threshold of the gate a weight lifted off Morgana as if the iron grip of the house loosened and fell away from her wrists and ankles.

When they got inside the pristine pillared walls of the museum they saw on display various crowns, swords and shields. Morgana could see the inanimate objects in action, hear the clashing of swords against shields, the clang of dropping armor. From her history background, she told herself. She diligently scribbled details into her notebook and put them back in her coat pocket.

“That looks like something you would wear,” Morgana said to Merlin, pointing at a tattered peasant’s jacket worn down by time and whoever owned it.

“Um, thanks. I think I could make it look good.” He joked.

Morgana cast him a doubtful glance. “Whoever designed the garment seemed like they wanted to actively sabotage the person who would wear it.”

“I’d add some accessories. Like a tie!” Merlin said. He seemed different when he was out of the house, no longer suffocated by its walls, there was a lightness to him.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Of course. I forgot you had piles upon piles of useful things in your home.” She walked on, got to the section with women’s clothing and jewelry then paused.

Out of the many intricate gowns, necklaces and large earrings Morgana was entranced by a simple bracelet encased in a glass box, like it hummed a melody that called her name and compelled her to focus on it completely. Merlin’s distant voice asking her something was muffled. There was another voice in her head, a whisper, close and clear.

Take it. It belongs to you.

She wanted to run her fingers on the glass. She wanted to smash it with her bare fists, take the bracelet and run off.

The vision of herself breaking the glass shot through her mind. The smashed glass in front of her, deep red smeared on the shards. The back of her hand stung. In her vision she held her bloody-knuckled hand in front of her, the shining bracelet tight in her grasp.

“Miss, you’re not supposed to touch the display,” a voice said.

Her heart leapt. The illusion was shattered.

She drew her hand back and whipped her head in their direction and there was a sharp snap. The guide tilted their head.

The glass now had a crack on the lower corner. Her vision and hearing were fuzzy but she could see Merlin in front of her, blocking the museum guide’s view of the glass. She could hear him telling the guide that they were just on their way out.

“Morgana,” Merlin said and put a hand on her shoulder.

Her senses went quiet.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded and looked back at the clear box encasing the bracelet, the crack like a flash of lightning across the glass.

She was still disoriented. Her closed fists reminded her that both of her hands were empty. She pulled her eyes away from the bracelet.

“We need to leave,” Merlin whispered.

She became acutely aware of the pages in her pocket, as if the fingerprints burned through the layers of paper and fabric and seared into her skin. She focused instead on the grounding sensation of Merlin’s warm hand which had slid from her shoulder down to her back as he hurriedly led both of them out of the museum.

The sun hung low over the horizon of the majestic lake, painting the sky in warm colors that reminded Morgana of the stained glass dragon in the house.

It was automatic for them to make their way there after their eventful day at the museum, needing to shake from their mind what happened. But to Morgana it only intensified. She replayed it in her mind, trying to spot clues as to what actually happened.

“I thought about what you said,” Morgana said to Merlin.

“About jackets and ties?”

“No. About believing things you can’t see. I’ve seen this lake in my dreams. Before I’ve ever even seen it in real life.” She turned to him and saw that he was focused on her words. “Did you see the crack on the glass at the museum?”

“Yes.”

“Was it there before?”

“I saw it break before my eyes,” he said.

“I didn’t touch it. Right?” she asked, as if she was pleading for someone to tell her she wasn’t crazy.

He looked at her, perplexed why she would ask that. “No.” He said, like it was a matter of fact.

She nodded to herself. So it’s not just in the house where she was losing her mind. But he had seen it too. She wasn’t just seeing things.

“How would you explain that?” she asked.

“The museum must have been short on budget for stronger glass. That or you glared at it for too long and it broke down and self-destructed,” he shrugged.

She lifted a brow. “Did you experience anything strange in the museum? Did you feel anything?”

Merlin tilted his head, confused.

“Like a constant pulse dancing on your skin. There must have been something in those objects emitting it. Some sort of frequency.” She slowly turned to the lake. As time passed the colors reflected on its surface became more lurid and disorienting. She gasped as she felt it. “What—there it is again.”

Morgana felt a thrumming in the waters. An uncontrollable instinct possessed her, like a net was cast on her, golden and pulsing, pulling her in with a secret melody carried by the waves.

Without thinking she took off her shoes, her coat, dropped it to the ground and walked into the water. In a trance she walked further into the lake till she was knee deep in it. The gentle waves soaked the hem of her dress painting it an even darker bluegreen.

Merlin panicked and took off his jacket and shoes, rolled up his sleeves and the legs of his pants before he followed her.

“What are you doing?” He reached for her arm. She was already too far away.

“Do you feel that?” She looked back at him desperately wanting some validation for her senses.

His brows furrowed. “Feel what?”

She just stared at him, fear rising in her gut. “Like a buzzing, in the waters.” I feel it under my skin.

“That doesn’t sound safe.” Merlin cocked his head. ”I’m not sure I feel anything except cold and wet,” he called behind her as she went further. “Morgana, be careful! Around here there are random dips.”

Morgana paused and smirked. “Why? Can’t swim?” she said over her shoulder.

“I can. I—just don’t want to,” he stammered, a little offended, “Especially if you say you feel something funny in the water.”

Something metallic winked at Morgana in the water. A wave of excitement bloomed in her chest. Did the bracelet in the museum somehow make its way to her? Her hand shot through the water’s surface and reached under but quickly drew her hand back causing splashes.

A woman’s face appeared beneath the water, her dark hair floating around her, eyes filled with melancholy.

Morgana gasped sharply.

From under the water, the lady surged toward Morgana.

She shrieked. “Merlin!” She almost fell back.

There was agitated splashing behind her.

“Morgana?!”

She turned just in time to see Merlin wading through the lake, frantically trying to get to her. He took another step and fell under. He’s definitely still a klutz outside the house.

The current pushed against Morgana’s thighs, hot humid air filling her lungs as she rushed to get to Merlin. She didn’t dare look behind her, afraid of what she would find. Merlin wasn’t surfacing for a few seconds. Morgana reached under the waves.

Merlin’s head emerged from the water and Morgana grabbed his arm to help him get up, the front of her dress drenched in the process.

Merlin took in a big gulp of air. “What the hell was that?” He laughed. “Did you bring me up here to drown me?” he said jokingly.

She looked at his dripping dark hair that was sticking to his forehead. “I–” what was she supposed to say? That she saw something crazy again? A woman under the water? With all these ‘visions’ she would never get away from the crazy woman allegations.

She looked around. The crystal waters were empty. She decided to just laugh it off. It has been a long day. She was tired and her mind and eyes played tricks on her. That was it. There was no woman in the lake.

“I thought you said you could swim!” She chuckled.

“Ahh. This is all a scheme to get my estate!” His gestures were exaggerated, splashing water around. “Poor choice. The old house is really not worth much nowadays. All you’ll gain is loads of antique junk!” He rose to his full height. His chest rose as he breathed in precious air after almost drowning.

“Great. Now we're both soaked.” he huffed. Morgana flushed at the comment. But his tone was more annoyed than teasing. “This isn’t exactly the perfect season for a swim at a lake and we aren’t exactly in swimming attire.”

It was now hard to ignore the fact that Merlin's wet button up shirt was sticking to his skin, revealing the lines of his body and his rolled up sleeves that revealed his forearms. She sucked in a breath. There was a furious heat on her cheeks.

He’s not that skinny at all!

Morgana could feel her own dress clinging to her body, hugging her torso and thighs. And Merlin noticed this. Something shifted in the air as they stared at each other.

Heat spread over Morgana's chest as Merlin's eyes raked over her figure. His gaze slowly went lower and he quickly looked away like he looked at the sun for too long. His adorable ears turned an even more adorable shade of pink.

Morgana smiled a little. She's not the only one affected by this little accident.

If it were any other man her instinct would have been to hug herself to cover up but she didn’t dare do that in front of Merlin. Surprisingly, she found that a part of her wished his gaze had lingered a bit longer.

In fact she even stepped towards him daringly. “Well then we should go back here when the season is right. In proper attire.”

Seeing Merlin’s pink cheeks was delightful. She felt a surge of victory.

“Sunset’s gone. Guess there’s not much to see here anymore,” he murmured, his gaze firm on the shimmering water.

She smirked. “Yes. It's getting dark. Better get home before we freeze.”

Morgana stood in the doorway to the downstairs bathroom with a towel around her shoulders while Merlin ran the warm water for her (it would be too inconvenient to haul the water upstairs to her bathroom). Water ran from the antique golden faucets that Morgana was impressed were still working. Their clothes and hair were still damp.

They had walked home pulling their coats around their damp bodies, somehow shivering even more inside the dark house. The chill reminded her of what had transpired in the lake.

“I saw someone at the lake,” she said, unprompted.

Merlin looked up at her.

“A woman.”

He stilled and looked at her curiously.

“She was…underwater. And then she was gone without a trace. I don’t know if it was a reflection or if I had just imagined it.” she sighed. “What a day.” Why did she always find herself voicing out to him every insane thing that crossed her mind? Was it because he looked at her with curiosity instead of condescension? What did it matter? She had already told him so much about her strange experiences.

She waited for him to say something. A dismissive remark. Disbelief. He only nodded, deep in thought.

Morgana’s eyes traveled down the lines of Merlin’s neck and collarbones, over his white shirt that clung to his lithe torso, his forearms as he dipped his pale hand into the water.

“It’s ready.”

Merlin’s voice pulled her out of her trance.

He nodded to her then kept his gaze straight ahead and he passed her. His deep scent was intensified by the heated water in the air and it followed him as walked out. He smelled like rain.

She cleaned herself in the filled bathtub as if she could wash away from her mind the images of Merlin in his damp clothes in the lake, his gaze that felt more intimate than a touch. The searing prints on her notebook. The bracelet in the museum. The lingering doubt.

What did she even learn on their little excursion other than what Merlin vaguely looked like underneath his clothes? Not useful at all.

Newfound feelings sprouted in her as she ran her own hands over her heated skin, warmth penetrating her. She suppressed a shiver, submerging more of her skin under the warm soapy water.

She had to make haste. Merlin was right outside waiting for his turn in the bath.