Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is something about Arthur’s manservant. Morgana can’t figure out just what.

Morgana had visited Camelot a few times before her father’s death. She can’t remember what it was to be that girl before everything that came next, but she thinks they had once been good memories. The king was stern as her father told her a king would be, but he’d ask her about her life, and she’d thought he was truly listening. Besides, he was her father’s friend and that was an honor. Arthur was younger than her and already took everything in the world far too seriously, but she didn’t really mind playing with him. She’d been fascinated by the city, which was so much larger and more varied than what she was used to. They were simply visits before she went back home.

Then Morgana’s father died, and she was sent to stay forever in a city she didn’t know, with the king who’d sent her father to his death and his thoughtless, arrogant son. She had hated Camelot for being the same even when her world had changed forever, and for being the land her father had been killed for. Everything she had known there had turned into something she despised.

Morgana hadn’t known Gaius before she became Uther’s ward. She knew that there was a physician, of course, and she had known that he was the best to be found because her father said so. But there had never been a reason for the two of them to cross paths during her visits. Morgana met Gaius for the first time when she twisted her wrist when she’d fallen when trying to climb out her window. She can still remember her fall.

Arthur had been the first to reach her. He had been so paled you’d think that he was the one who’d nearly broken his arm, except that even then Arthur would rather die than look frightened over his own injury. He hadn’t been able to hide his terror in the face of her injuries. He’d tried to lift her with scrawny arms as if he could carry her across the Citadel. When she’d told him that she didn’t want him to fetch his father – she had twisted an arm before – he had helped her to the chambers of the Court Physician without argument. Maybe that was the first crack.

Gaius had been new. He didn’t bring back memories. He wasn’t someone she had to hate or feel like she was betraying her father’s death. He had let her sit in his rooms as he worked, not needing anything of her and not trying to change her. He had been a salvation when Morgana was trying to insist to herself that she didn’t want to be saved.

The grief never faded completely, but it became a shadow rather than something Morgana felt she had to cling to. She could love her father without hating everyone else. Still, when she was too tired to fight with Uther or to deal with Arthur or to simply exist as Lady Morgana, the king’s ward, she had slipped away to visit Gaius. He never revoked the space he’d made for her to sit quietly with a book or shut her eyes and listen to him work.

It was to Gaius that Morgana first brough her bad dreams, and it was Gaius who found an answer. It was Gaius who she loved, and who she trusted beyond anyone else. Then Gaius had died. It wasn’t like when Morgana’s father had died. Gaius had died at a far greater age than most and as peacefully as possible (according to the stern servant physician it had been sudden). Yet that doesn’t mean that Morgana misses him any less. Arthur can try to make himself feel better with those platitudes; Morgana just allows herself to grieve. As the edges of that grief start to smooth, it’s made sharp again with a more selfish fear. She dreams of Arthur’s death, and she has no one to turn to. Gwen offers what comfort and care that she can, and Morgana is grateful for it, but she is no physician.

Morgana isn’t a child, so she doesn’t hate Kestrel for being there – for being the Court Physician – when Gaius can’t be. It’s good for Camelot to have such a well-trained physician. But Morgana doesn’t know him. She can’t talk of her dreams with some strange man, even if he knows that she has nightmares from Gaius’ notes. She’s not the only patient with nightmares that Gaius treated. She can’t ask him if any of the others have dreams that come true.

Morgana dreams of Arthur in the lake. It isn’t the first dream Morgana has had of Arthur’s death since Gaius’ last breath. At first, she thought they might be a response to Gaius’ death. After all, it did bring back memories of her father’s death, too. Dreams she hasn’t had since she was a child: watching him fall on the battlefield as if she had been there to see it with her own eyes. She loves her father still, but she’s accepted that he’s gone. Is it stranger to get visions of Arthur in death, when she knows how often he’s at risk? Not just as a knight of Camelot.

If it wasn’t for Merlin – newly arrived and in position as Kestrel’s apprentice – Arthur would’ve died at Mary Collins’ hand. Morgana is careful to remember her name. A witch is granted no memorial, and she has no son left to hold it for her. Morgana had been right there. That night she couldn’t fall asleep as her mind was too full of what could’ve happened if Merlin hadn’t acted. Arthur would’ve died and Morgana would’ve seen it and known she had done nothing to save him. It makes her want to rage at Uther, at Arthur, or at herself rather than be left only with tears.

Arthur had almost been killed again, mere days later. Mary Collins’ had had a reason that Morgana could understand. Valiant had almost killed Arthur, for what? To win a joust? At the cost of his own life at Uther’s hand most likely, even if the magic shield had gone undiscovered. It almost had. Young Galahad had come to her with his question about Valiant’s shield, and she had made sure the hallway was empty. If he hadn’t found out about the snakes, would there have been a way of saving Arthur? Morgana has seen what the snakebite can do to a man. Even if Arthur hadn’t been killed on the field, would he have been able to pull his way out of the dark nights that had almost claimed Sir Ewan? Arthur is too much a knight – too much a prince – to recover easily without his sword.

Morgana had seen what would happen if Arthur had drunk the poison Bayard had accidentally offered him when she’d seen Merlin lying on the bed in the physician’s chambers. The look on Kestrel’s face when Galahad had run in with the flower revealed how close Merlin had been to death in a way the physician had managed to keep hidden up till then.

Morgana had seen the knights the griffin had killed, just as she’s seen the bodies of knights killed by other attacks from animal or humans or magical creatures that Uther seemed to think could be killed easily despite all evidence to the contrary. If she was able to imagine Arthur in any of their places then it was simply that she had been gifted (or cursed) with a far greater imagination than, say, Arthur could ever dream of.

Then Morgana dreamed of Arthur in the lake and knew it was not just a dream. It came back night after night, haunting her: Arthur underneath the water. Arthur dead and with an uncanny peace to it instead of the bloated look of a drowned corpse. The lack of signs of death should have been reassuring but weren’t because she knew with certainty that she couldn’t explain that it was because there was not enough life in him even to leave a normal corpse. He was just a price to be paid, and it was not one that Morgana was willing to pay.

When Morgana saw the girl who sent Arthur to his death in that lake walking up to the Citadel on Arthur’s arm she was hit with a wave of helplessness that almost drowned her. She knew that Arthur wouldn’t listen as clearly as she knew her dream was true. She knew what would happen when he didn’t listen. She had felt helpless before (as much as she wishes otherwise), but it had turned out that it was different to think that she knew what would come and to know as if it had already played out in front of her. It was the weight of inevitability that tried to drag her down just as it would take Arthur. But he wasn’t a price she was willing to pay so she had braced herself against the image of inevitability and acted.

Morgana had gone to Galahad because she was certain that he would listen, and he had already been on his way to her with his concerns. He brought her to Kestrel, and she had thought that perhaps there would be some way to make Arthur mildly sick to keep him out of ‘Sophia’s’ clutches. When Kestrel had gone to find the king, Morgana had felt the edge of an axe at her next, but she had made the choice to act rather than just let Arthur die. She wouldn’t turn away.

For an eternity that could fit within a moment, Morgana had expected the king to call the guards to bring her to the cells, whatever Kestrel said. She felt almost at peace with the idea or perhaps was just paralyzed with fear. Uther had called his knights, not for her but to chase after Arthur. Morgana had a future again, and she knew her life would no longer be what it was. She couldn’t go back.

Uther’s knights had rode to the lake using the description from her dream, but, as Morgana learned afterwards, by the time they arrived, Merlin had already dragged Arthur out of the water. Arthur had been well enough to ride back to the castle himself, and Kestrel had judged his condition well enough that he didn’t even get a lecture for it. Unlike Merlin, who Morgana had seen trying to fend off both the Court Physician’s and Arthur’s stern words about dragging an armored man out of a lake alone, especially after almost being hit by some strange magic.

Morgana had stayed long enough to hear Arthur and Merlin bickering over whether Arthur had been in some sort of suspended state due to the enchantment he was caught in or if Arthur simply had a far superior constitution. It had been reassuring to have proof that Arthur was still Arthur, as healthy and obnoxious as ever. He was alive and free from the unnerving enchantment that had made him follow ‘Sophia’. Morgana had slipped away without speaking to him, then.

Arthur had come to her that evening.

“Really, Morgana, I’m away for a few hours and I come back to hear that you’ve been granted visions by the gods.” He shook his head, taking a seat that she had not offered to him.

“I hear that you don’t remember what an ass you made of yourself over Sophia. Did you want the details?” It’s a relief to see the clouds gone from his eyes. She didn’t think he’d even registered her presence when she’d tried to pull him away from Sophia. Even before she had known it was a spell, it had been unnerving to see Arthur caught up so deeply in love. It hadn’t looked like Arthur.

Despite Morgana using her sharpest tone, she knew with Arthur’s small smile that he understood the words she couldn’t say. The words that the two of them could never say to one another.

“I suppose you expect me to be grateful.” With every word, it was easier to let go of the fear that had been a knot in her chest since the first vision.

“I don’t expect miracles,” she said dryly.

“Yes, you’re only the vessel of them, so I’ve heard.” So practically everyone had heard, as Gwen had told her with the sort of sympathy that Morgana could only take from Gwen. It was another reason she had… retreated to her rooms for the rest of the day. “Who would’ve thought that it was the gods who placed me in your dreams.”

“If you were in my dream, it was only because you got yourself into trouble.”

In normal circumstances, Arthur would’ve probably found something infuriating to say about the knight’s code and her ability to truly understand it. She wondered if he knew as she did that ‘normal’ has changed for good.

“Next time I’ll listen a little more to your fretting,” Arthur waved a grand hand to go with his oh-so-magnanimous statement. “I’m off for dinner.”

Morgana had let him go. She didn’t ask if he’d so firmly dismissed her dreams before because he truly just saw them as her ‘fretting’ (she was definitely going to get back at him for that one), or because a small part of him worried that they might be true – and everyone knew what Uther thought of magic. It was easy during the day but late at night Morgana couldn’t fully dismiss the chance that it hadn’t only been Arthur ignoring her in the way he all to often ignores what she says. She wished she could.

Late that night, Morgana went to Arthur’s rooms. It had been a long time since she last visited at anywhere close to this hour, but his manservant doesn’t sleep in the connected room so she didn’t think it would be likely that she’d be caught. She wasn’t doing anything to be ‘caught’ at. It was just that even after the matter was so firmly settled, when Morgana closed her eyes, she had one last glimpse of Arthur lying in the water. He looked at peace, and yet she knew he was gone. She had hoped he’d be asleep.

Morgana recognized Arthur’s expression, even with the distance between the door she stepped into his room through and where Arthur sat at his desk made longer by shadows. She knew that his quiet reflection would swiftly be tossed away for some sort of smug comment about how she couldn’t be kept away or – far worse – an attempt to be understanding, if she didn’t speak first.

“What would you have done if Uther thought I was a sorceress?” Morgana felt almost possessed by some sort of magic herself: one reckless question to pay for all. But she had to ask.

“I would protect you.” Arthur said, as if it was simple. As if she should know what he means by that.

“Your protection?” She said instead, with a scoff to set them both more at ease than the ghost of vulnerability that they knew better than to chase. “You were the one who had to be pulled out of a pond.”

“I’m a knight. If there had been a proper fight –”

It was easy to fall into their usual bickering. If Uther thought she had magic. She can’t imagine that Arthur would actually do something. She can’t imagine that he’d succeed if he did try. He would bow to his king’s desires. But she believed him. A stupid part, probably. She’d believed before she asked, or she wouldn’t have risked asking. She can’t forget his words.

There isn’t much to be found about seers, in Camelot. Before Uther’s announcement that natural seers are in no way connected to magic, no one would have admitted that there was any information on seers. Even now, Morgana suspects that people are – reasonably, she can feel their reasons – concerned about what other questions Uther might ask if they came forward. If Uther had once known anything about seers, he can’t remember now.

And so, Morgana finds herself sitting in the chambers of the Court Physician. She’s alone with Kestrel for the first time. Whenever she’s been here before, there’s always been other people around. There’s always been something immediate and important to keep her focus. The sleeping draughts had been brought to her chamber by others, and Morgana had been willing to face a few more nightmares rather than seeking him out to speak about potentially changing the recipe.

From what Morgana has heard – from what Morgana has seen herself – Kestrel is a good physician. Morgana wishes it was Gaius sitting across the table from her instead.

“I’m afraid there is only so much I can tell you about the nature of seers, Lady Morgana.” Kestrel says, as straightforward and matter of fact as he always seems to be. “As I told the king, I have a cousin who was granted visions, but I don’t know the details of her gift.” He laces his fingers together. “As a physician, however, I believe I can help.”

“In what way?” Morgana knows that she sounds as composed as she hopes she looks. She had spent a long time practicing in front of the mirror, as if she was still a little girl readying herself to face Camelot.

“The potion Gaius made for you is a great help for nightmares, but visions are not nightmares. No matter how nightmarish it can be to see flashes of a future,” he adds. She wonders if he caught the thought in her eyes, or if he’s thinking about his cousin’s gift. “I have put together a tincture that should work to sooth your sleep but does not obscure dreams. If your visions don’t have to fight so hard to get through, they may grow less intense. In any case, it should help you fall back asleep more easily.”

“Are you sure?” Morgana wraps her hand around the bottle, hoping that there’s no hint of desperation.

“As sure as a physician can be.” He gives her a rueful smile. “Which is not always as sure as we’d like. It’s just the first attempt. If it doesn’t help, we can try something new.” Kestrel doesn’t look like Gaius and wouldn’t even if he wasn’t a few inches shorter and several decades younger than Gaius – had been. The words are his own. Yet Morgana can still hear Gaius in them.

“I will keep you informed.” She stands, giving him a brief nod. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my lady.” He seems to hesitate for a moment, and she almost thinks he’s going to say something more, but he just stands in turn to give her a brief bow.

When Morgana opens the door, she sees Merlin walking towards the physician’s rooms. When he catches sight of her, he attempts to bow. He doesn’t remember that he needs to stop first and almost falls over in the attempt. Morgana can’t help her smile as she imagines Arthur’s face at such a display of coordination but makes sure to hide it before Merlin looks at her again.

“Good afternoon, Merlin.” It’s easy to smile warmly at him. Easier now that she’s in the hallway than it would be in the chambers behind her.

“You too! My lady.” Merlin clearly doesn’t mean that to be quite so enthusiastic, and just as clearly has no idea how to escape the awkwardness of his address. He may even have realized that it’s not a greeting that would be approved in a book on servant etiquette. Arthur was always swearing that he’d make his manservant read one.

From someone else, Morgana might think that it’s a display of fear or awe – the second of which she’s found can be just as uncomfortable as the first – because of her new… status. From Merlin, Morgana believes it’s just… Merlin. She cuts through the knot by walking past him with another smile. His smile is bright in return, and she finds herself holding onto that just as she holds onto the tincture.

Morgana still dreams.

Kestrel’s potion appears to work as he promised. It works well enough for her to wonder whether he had spoken the truth about how much he knew of seers. She couldn’t blame him if he’s wary of sharing everything, here. It’s far rarer now that she finds herself brought suddenly to wakefulness by some nightmare of what’s to come. But with better sleep comes stranger dreams. If there’s meaning to them, it too often escapes her like water falling through her fingers.

Morgana dreams.

Galahad kneels before a unicorn. Morgana recognizes the boy, though in the dream he’s a boy no longer. The young man’s dark hair is tied back, and she can almost make out the crest on his surcoat. His tears drop onto a barren land, and silver flowers grow beneath the unicorn’s feet. They remind her of Mordred’s eyes.

Gwen is working on a sword, shaping the metal with her bare hands, and then she’s in the field, laughing, with hands still covered in soot. She’s wearing a crown of blue and silver roses and Morgana is terrified – without know why it carries such terror – that a thorn will scratch her.

Arthur lies on the bank of a river, blood dripping from his hand into the stream. The land grows stronger by his blood (the land takes his blood). His armor is gone, and his face is peaceful. A stranger gathers him up easily, because Arthur is no more than a boy – younger than when Morgana had first met him. She had wanted to join him at the stream, so she could show him how their father had taught her to fish.

Two dragons are fighting, and the castle is crumbling under their weight. Morgana can’t look away from the fight – is it a fight? It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. It’s the most terrible. One dragon calls out, but the other is silent.

Morgana never dreams of Merlin.

Chapter Text

Morgana’s place in Camelot has always been both complicated and simple. She’s the king’s ward. When she came of age she gained stewardship over the lands of her father. There isn’t much in the way of land so for the most part she leaves it to Garlot’s competent care. On the bad days, Morgana wonders if that’s why the king had trusted him. Her father had been Uther’s friend and a great knight and known as a good man. If he hadn’t been, she might have still ended up living in Camelot as other noble ladies who see more chances at court than back ‘home’ do. She doesn’t know.

Gorlois was all that people say and more, so Morgana is not just another lady of the court. She’s friendly enough with those of them who are willing to be friendly in turn, but there’s a distance between them that might have been lessened if she came from a family known for wealth and power that was greater than most of them rather than lesser. She doesn’t know if that’s just wistful thinking or whether there would always be a gap between them that she couldn’t fully bridge. If there’s something in her that creates such distance, not just her place at Uther’s side.

When Morgana had been almost fifteen, Uther had promised her that she would never have to marry someone she didn’t wish to. She hadn’t even had to fight him over it. He hasn’t broken the promise. It’s easy for him not to break it, as there’s nothing that her marriage could provide of any great benefit. It’s something he’s chosen not to break, because he loves her. He often doesn’t listen to her, but he respects her enough to not make certain promises. She knows that he would go further to try to keep his word to her than he might if he made some promise to Arthur.

Morgana doesn’t believe that Uther loves anyone more than he loves Arthur, but she knows that it’s not always an easy love to live with. Morgana loves Uther, but there are times she wishes she didn’t. She thinks it would be easier if she could simply hate him as it’s sometimes easy to hate the king.

Morgana knows that if Uther didn’t love her, he’d likely call her gift magic rather than speak of the gods. The injustice of that is just another bitter drop in a deep lake, and yet she loves him even at the moments she hates him. Yet she hates him even at the moments she hates him. These days she can speak of her dreams, but there’s no one she could tell of her feelings.

Uther’s court has never been a particularly religious one. They celebrate the gods, old and new, of course. There are always various religious ceremonies and rituals that are observed to varying degrees among different people. It’s not the sort of court that would host a saint. Thankfully, Morgana isn’t a saint, and Uther was easily convinced that he didn’t need to go that far to underline that Morgana has a connection to the gods and not magic. He seems certain of that himself and so allows himself to be smug and take the visions as proof of the importance of his house.

Morgana bites her tongue and doesn’t raise other reasons that Arthur may appear so often in her visions of danger. She’s learned to bite her tongue often, these days. Once, she had been able to speak without weighing each word against the weight of the future.

Morgana accepts her new position in the court with as much grace as she can muster. It’s not truly that much more than what she had done before, but she finds quickly that it was one thing to help direct a ceremony as a lady of the house and another to direct a ceremony where she holds a place of honor. It’s one thing for people to hold themselves at a distance because of the complex interplay of their social stations, it’s another to be an object of wonder or fear.

Morgana is just grateful that she still has Gwen, who continues to see her as Morgana. There’s a space between them – even if Morgana doesn’t cling to the idea that a servant can never be a friend like Arthur does, but there are undeniably differences between them – but it has always been worth it to build bridges over those gaps. That hasn’t changed. They can still catch each other’s eyes during some particularly dull function and Gwen has to bite her lip to stop from laughing. Gwen is still there to talk to Morgana after a nightmare, to help her remember what’s real when she gets flustered over comments on certain men.

Morgana’s even grateful for Arthur’s teasing, though she’ll tell him that over her cold dead body (she can’t joke that it would be over his, even in her head).

It’s for Gwen’s sake – and for Arthur’s – that Morgana asks Gwen to join Merlin when he goes home. Arthur will be there too, of course. Hunith had mentioned they had other help, but Morgana trusts Arthur to look out for Gwen. To an overbearing extent, probably, but hopefully Gwen will listen to her advice to tell Arthur where he can put his attitude as frequently as possible.

Morgana wishes she could join them. She can admit to herself that it’s not a matter of simple altruism. For once, Uther’s refusal to help isn’t truly unreasonable – unlike it usually is – but that doesn’t mean that others can’t offer unofficial help. Morgana could be that help to a village in need. Morgana knows how to wield a sword. She wants a chance to fight. She wants a chance to act. She wants to do something meaningful.

Before, Morgana would’ve gone with Merlin without a second thought. Now, Morgana can’t simply ride out as she once had. It would draw too much attention. The king would act, so she can’t. The least she can do is tell Gwen to go. She knows that Gwen would choose to stay with her if it came down to it, so she doesn’t make it into a choice.

Morgana is in the physician’s – in Kestrel’s rooms when the four return. She’s there to hear Arthur ranting about Merlin getting shot with an arrow (he really does fuss), which doesn’t seem likely to end any time soon since Merlin is awake enough to hear him. Morgana knows that Gwen will tell her the whole story (and Arthur will no doubt tell it over again), but it’s not the same as having been there herself.

Gwen smiles at her, and Morgana smiles back not letting those thoughts show as Gwen tells her the quick version. When it comes to the arrival of Sir Lancelot, Morgana’s smile is fully genuine as she teases Gwen about her description of his arrival. Her story is interrupted when Arthur pauses from his lecture to add his own observations on the character of Sir Lancelot and his surprise appearance. Morgana isn’t sure which of them seems more disappointed that he was left behind.

When Morgana glances over at the bed, Merlin looks like he’s fallen asleep – or has put on a good pretense to try to get out of a further lecture. She shakes away the thought that he’d been watching her.

Morgana dreams.

The wind is freezing against her skin, but she’s long been too frozen to feel the flakes of snow against her face. The others that had joined her quest move forward as ice slowly consuming the world around them. They would crack at a single touch, unable to handle any heat. There is no risk of that, and so they go on and she can’t look back.

The lake closes over her head, and Morgana is sitting on the bank on the other side. The children continue their games with no attention spared to her arrival. Their laughter is water against stone. No, not all of the children are so absorbed. The girl creeps closer to her, cautious but eager. Morgana is struck again by the brightness of the world where the iridescent blue of her skin seems only natural.

Two boys are playing on the rocks, wooden swords abandoned on the beach in exchange for the delight of exploration. No, there are three children carefully making their way over the rocks towards a dark cave. The youngest boy looks up and seems to see her. He smiles before chasing forward to follow the glimpse of his sister’s dark hair as she vanishes into the shadows.

A woman sits on a throne of woven light. She’s familiar but her identity is obscured by the light instead of made clear by it. There’s a crystal sword lying across her lap, and a basket sits at her feet.

Arthur falls back, and the flames consume him. He burns and burns, and Morgana can feel the fire.

Morgana wakes up. She knows the pounding of her heart is for Arthur, but the drying tears on her cheeks come from the wrenching sadness of the woman’s unseen face.

“That’s it?” Arthur asks, leaning against the table like an unnecessary prop. It’s an accurate description, in Morgana’s opinion.

Morgana glares at him as she picks through what insults are most appropriate for the occasion. All of them, probably. She knows far more than Arthur does.

Arthur raises his hands. “I just meant that it’s not very detailed. What am I supposed to do about it? I could figure out ‘don’t get burned’ all by myself.”

“Try not to fall over your own feet?” She suggests, sweetly.

“There is no chance I would fall over my own feet!” Arthur is just as piqued by the very suggestion as she’d known he’d be.

“I was the one who saw the details.” She had seen him die. No matter how much he’s annoying her at this moment (and many other moments), she doesn’t want her vision to come true. Still, her irritation is a helpful anecdote to fear. Arthur certainly has a way about him.

“Details get mixed up in dreams,” Arthur says with all the confidence of someone who knows absolutely nothing about what he’s talking of but will defend his own claims to the very end.

“Remember to take off your armor before running away, and you wouldn’t trip yourself up.”

Arthur makes a dramatic show of choosing to ignore that. Morgana will admit that he won’t hesitate to call a retreat when it’s the option he thinks best for his knights, but his belief in his own abilities means he loses all common sense when it’s just him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to get set on fire,” he says, airily. He smiles at her, as if he thinks he’s being very comforting to someone who’s distressed. She doesn’t know who he thinks is distressed. Morgana throws a plum at his head. He catches it as she’d known he would, and so she can sit back and enjoy his smugness turning to disgust at the plum juice now dripping from his hand. “Really, Morgana?”

“My hand slipped.” She takes a raspberry from the bowl next to her. Arthur loves them just as much as she does, but he’s far too proud to ask for some directly.

“What’s all this here fore, anyway? It can’t be another harvest festival already. How many can there be?” He asks of the air, as he wipes his hand on his jacket.

“I’m sure we all feel very safe at night knowing the best knight in Camelot could miss the preparations for an entire festival.” Morgana has seen Arthur fail to notice the preparations for feasts and festivals several times. For the festivals, it’s generally because he’s been away long enough to lose track. She doesn’t feel a need to be fair. Unfortunately, for once, Arthur has a flash of perceptiveness rather than getting distracted by the insult. He doesn’t even preen at ‘finest knight’, ignoring her tone.

“These are offerings, aren’t they?” If Morgana had another overly ripe piece of fruit to hand, she would aim for his hair. Arthur would find this whole business hilarious. “I get set on fire and you get fresh raspberries. The life of a knight can be a thankless one.”

Morgana scoffs, almost impressed that he can say that with a straight face. “You’ve heard stories about such knights?”

Arthur looks like he’s thinking about expounding on the hardships and privations that the Crown Prince of Camelot has suffered on his travels with fellow knights – and multiple servants and any house in the land open to him. She can’t say that complaining about the rain for ten minutes counts as ‘bearing up silently’, but Arthur never hesitates to go on about the mud that he didn’t have to clean from his clothes or wipe off the floor. He thinks better of it.

“Has Merlin tried to offer you fruit? It’s important to remember that he’s a simple peasant boy, and so easily overwhelmed. You could try to have a vision about he’s going to end up stabbed this week,” Arthur says, shifting subjects before she gets a chance to respond to ‘easily overwhelmed’. “At least I know how to look after myself.”

“Just look after your feet.” Morgana doesn’t say that she’s never seen Merlin in her visions, or in her dreams. Not that she’s told anyone about her strange dreams. Arthur would get even more intolerable if she even hinted that she’d seen him in a dream – and saying that it was an uncanny one would somehow be even worse.

Besides, Morgana doesn’t think that Merlin has to be constantly watched to stop him from trying to sacrifice his life for Arthur, no matter what Arthur says. She can admit that Arthur isn’t completely unreasonable in his complaints considering the number of times Merlin has been injured, and his immunity to Arthur trying to get him to stay away from danger. She wouldn’t admit as much to Arthur, because his concern over his servant’s occasionally sacrificial tendencies have served to improve his character.

It's not entirely fair to say that Arthur has been made a better person, but since Merlin’s arrival Morgana has seen the better side of Arthur drawn out more and more. Once she had thought that side of him was almost lost (once she’d thought she might have imagined it). She’s very capable of – and willing to take up the burden of – listing his flaws. At length. If it wouldn’t inflate his head to a dangerous degree, she might mention a few of his virtues.

The Arthur who risked his life for his servant, who knighted a commoner, who saved a druid, who rides out to protect people no matter where they’re from, who acts against what his father would want even if he still rarely speaks out against him… there has always been the signs of that man in him. He has a far kinder heart than Uther, and a far fairer one too.

Arthur’s also rude, thoughtless, insensitive, overly proud, condescending and far too willing to follow his father even when he disagrees with him. He’s also smug, self-confident to an obnoxious extreme, acts without thinking, readily ignores things he doesn’t like, reckless, self-important, ready to spread around a bad mood to those who don’t deserve it… All of which helps stop her from getting overly sentimental. That’s not who they are.

Before Arthur can get back into the rhythm of defending his martial prowess, Merlin practically hurtles through the door. He narrowly manages to avoid falling over the table though he can’t stop himself from running into it, which leaves him bent over and wheezing slightly. It’s not the first time that he’s rushed into a room where Morgana and Arthur are having a conversation. Arthur takes it as proof that Merlin has a crush on her.

“Really, Merlin. I know you’re capable of entering a room like a normal person,” Arthur says, smirking at Morgana.

“You said to tell you when everything was ready.” Merlin might have been able to pull off something near to offended dignity, if he wasn’t still catching his breath.

“Ready by tomorrow.” Arthur gives a long suffering sigh.

“Everything is ready before tomorrow.” Merlin has a wide smile when he wants. It does make him look a touch touched in the head.

“Don’t think that means you get the night off.” Arthur says, folding his arms.

“Do I ever?” Merlin doesn’t even pretend he’s trying to speak under his breath.

“I suppose I should go see to make sure that everything’s packed properly this time.” He turns to Morgana. “I won’t forget.” His seriousness is a balm to her fears, even if he immediately tries to make up for the moment of sincerity by complaining about Merlin’s failings as a servant while Merlin goes back and forth between defending himself and asking what Arthur isn’t supposed to forget.

Morgana turns back to the bowl of fruit, pretending she doesn’t see the sideways look Merlin gives her as he shepherds an oblivious Arthur out the door.

Morgana doesn’t need everyone to like her. She never has. She’s always stuck to her own path, and she doesn’t believe in compromising her beliefs or pretending to for the sake of someone else’s temper. The new distance and – worse – displays of unnerving reverence that some have adopted since the announcement of her ‘gift’ makes a bit of mere, honest dislike almost a relief.

Merline’s opinion shouldn’t bother her. It shouldn’t even really be frustrating that she doesn’t know why he doesn’t like her. But then, it’s not really honest dislike, considering how well he’s hidden what he feels from everyone else. It’s a surprise how much that honest face can hide. He’s tied so closely to the people Morgana loves. He’s Gwen’s friend and perhaps Arthur’s closest friend – though Arthur would squawk indignantly at the very idea – and it makes Merlin’s wariness matter.

It's been a long time since Morgana was Arthur’s closest companion. They had been children together, but children grew up. Even if Arthur hadn’t grown more obnoxious, he was always destined to be a leader of men. He was always destined to be separate from others. Morgana didn’t want him to be lonely, but it doesn’t mean she likes that her former position has been usurped so thoroughly. It’s worse that it’s someone who can lie to Arthur so easily. Not that she thinks Merlin means any true harm to Arthur – he just has an unnecessary concern for his feelings… Yet there are moments when she almost thinks he could be dangerous, as ridiculous as that is to think.

Morgana dreams.

A man lies on a field. It was once a field of battle, but time has brought new growth and a sense of peace to a place once destroyed as armies clashed. Crows sit in the branches of a tree that has grown tall from the bodies lying among its roots. The man is untouched by time. He lies alone and unburied. A girl leans over him, her long blonde hair hiding her face and whatever expression lies concealed.

A man lies next to a river. It’s far from the field of battle where he was cut down. There was peace here, before his body brought the violence of man to disrupt the peace of this hidden bit of nature. A raven perches in a tree branch above him.

A man and women lie together on a bed in an intimate embrace. It should be a contrast to the death that’s come before, but it’s a lifeless passion. The stones shiver with life instead. The king of ravens laughs as he raises his hands and the stone dance. He turns their thoughts to growth, as if they were trees reaching towards the sun. A man that is almost his image except for the complete whiteness of his eyes stands across the circle from him, feeling the dance of the stones in his blood.

Centuries later, the stone still remembers the dreams of growth

Uther falls, body broken and a broken headstone above him.

Gwen started to grow used to Morgana’s nightmares. She had seen them grow worse and had seen Morgana growing ever more afraid of things she wouldn’t speak of, even to Gwen. Gwen had longed for a way to help and felt increasingly helpless as her desire grew.

As much as Gwen misses Gaius, she had found it easy to like Kestrel from the start. It wasn’t his fault Gaius was dead, and someone needed to take his place. The sun keeps moving across the sky, unmoved by the losses of the mortals who needed its light. She found herself learning from him, as he’d asked her about what she’d learned from Gaius. She hadn’t realized how much she had learned from Gaius before Kestrel had asked. But she couldn’t betray Morgana’s fears to him.

Now that Kestrel knows, even if Gwen had disliked Kestrel, it would’ve been swept away by what he’s done for Morgana. The nightmares haven’t been fully banished, but they’re both rarer and look easier to recover from. Things aren’t the same as they had been before the nightmares had truly started, but Gwen sees more of that Morgana returning. There are mornings she goes to wake Morgana to find her already greeting the day without any signs of nightmare.

“I had almost forgotten what it was to dream,” Morgana whispered to her, once.

There are still nights when Gwen is woken by a scream, and rushes into her mistress’ room to find Morgana shaking in the aftermath of a nightmare. But now, when Gwen holds her, she can believe her own words of comfort. There’s something that can be done. Gwen thinks that she and Morgana share finding peace in having a practical purpose.

“I dreamed of Uther’s death,” Morgana says, leaning her forehead against Gwen’s shoulder. There’s a moment of pure relief that it wasn’t another vision of Arthur. The guilt follows immediately after, even knowing that Morgana is no doubt relieved as well. After all, Prince Arthur is away, and the king is in the castle where he can be warned of whatever danger he’s facing.

Gwen doesn’t believe in pretending – not in her own mind, where it’s safe to be honest – that her first thought had been a matter of practicality. The prince is part of her life – though if she did speak any such thing out loud (not that she would, she’s not Merlin, not that anyone is Merlin but Merlin himself) she would say immediately that he no doubt doesn’t think of her as part of his. Naturally, Morgana and Prince Arthur’s lives diverged as they stepped into their expected roles (well, Arthur had followed expectation and Morgana had forged ahead in her own direction), but to be close to Morgana was to know Arthur.

To trust Morgana’s judgement (to trust Gwen’s own judgement) is to see the good man the prince can be. He can make it easy to believe in him. Gwen can still hardly believe that she’d told Arthur off about his snobbery in the face of the food offered in Merlin’s village, but there’s no other noble she can think of who would make her forget herself so much as to think about it. To want to say it because he can be better. She definitely can’t think of any other prince who would actually apologize. He had listened to her.

To Gwen, King Uther is simply the king. Just as he’s the king to everyone she knows (to everyone he knows, she thinks, and there’s a certain sympathy to that thought). You didn’t like the king. He’s too removed from normal life. For the most part, he’s respected. He did what a king should do, according to people who don’t have much to compare him to. Still, they would’ve recognized a bad king.

King Uther protects the land of Camelot. He sees that the law is maintained. He isn’t particularly unfair in the grand scheme of things. Nobles are nobles and peasants are peasants, but everyone knows that. He doesn’t pretend that things are otherwise. His ban on all magic is occasionally considered too drastic, but even if people sometimes think back fondly on the little magics that had eased their lives, most agree that a kingdom where dragons could be found flying about just anywhere isn’t one where you could sleep easily. But that’s the king as he’s known to all.

King Uther is Arthur’s father. He’s not Morgana’s father, but he’s served as one far more than just a guardian. Gwen has always found the castle cold in comparison to her home, but that doesn’t mean Morgana doesn’t love him. Even when Morgana insisted that she didn’t. She wouldn’t get as angry or disappointed if there wasn’t always part of her seeking something.

Arthur loves his father.

Morgana had given Gwen all the support she could after the plague that had taken her father. She had secured Gwen’s home. She had helped with the gravestone. She had given her time off. She had been there for Gwen, as a friend. As no one else had been, because it had just been them. Morgana hadn’t known Tom, but she understood the loss of a father. She’d spoken haltingly of her own grief. She had just listened when Gwen could stop her outburst of frustration at Elyan’s absence.

The loss of the king would bring problems. The Crown Prince is still young and still thought too untested. There are plenty of neighbors always ready to take what they can, and even if Arthur proved stone enough to stop them it wouldn’t be easy. Gwen cares about the threats because Camelot is her home, and she loves it. She doesn’t want King Uther to die, because it would hurt Morgana.

Gwen is there when Morgana tells the king everything she saw in her vision.

Gwen is there when King Uther puts the sorcerers to death. She sees the bleak look in Morgana’s eyes. Morgana doesn’t speak of it. Gwen knows she doesn’t want comfort for her tears.

Chapter Text

Arthur has a headache. It’s called ‘Merlin’ and has been quite often since they first met. Merlin’s not the only reason for his headache. Arthur’s proud that his father thinks he can handle a diplomatic mission alone, of course, but that doesn’t make him any more enthusiastic at the idea of seeing Lord Hubert once again. There had been a quiet celebration when he left court, which Arthur still thinks of fondly. He would suspect his father had given him the job so he wouldn’t have to deal with Hubert – but he doesn’t have to suspect as he’s close to certain. Oh, the privileges of rank come in many forms.

Merlin pacing around the room listing all the many ways that Morgana’s vision of the danger Arthur is apparently in could take form is still the main reason for his headache. He can’t even enjoy the chance of something more interesting in his path than Herbert without having to weigh it against danger. Merlin can claim that Arthur exaggerates his lack of common sense all he wants, but Arthur’s not the one who ended up with an arrow in him. It was lucky that Guinevere was there, who could say what might have happened. It turns out that Guinevere is the type of woman you want nearby in a crisis. She has a mix of good sense and of character that Arthur wishes certain of his knights displayed.

And at least Arthur had had Lancelot to serve as support for his exasperation at Merlin’s complaints that they were taking his risks too seriously. Hunith was a lovely woman (Arthur knows his mother would’ve never been like her, and yet), but she’d clearly dropped Merlin on his head as a baby. Perhaps Merlin had managed to slam his own head into a wall a few more times once he’d started crawling. It seems like something Merlin would do.

“Why do we have to visit this Hubert, anyway?” Merlin asks, because he’s truly a terrible servant in practically every respect. There may be no changing him. He mostly keeps quiet in front of the king, but with everyone else it’s fair game. By this point the other knights are long used to it. Lean practically looks amused when he sees him at it. Galahad is used to it, which means there’s no escape.

“I am meeting with Lord Hubert because it’s important for the prince of Camelot to meet with his people. You’re coming along because these visits mean I have to travel with far too much baggage.” Including an annoying manservant.

Merlin nods. “Like checking on Old Gilbert and Castor.” Arthur refuses to ask what Merlin could possibly mean. He can recognize a trap when he hears it, and he’s not going to trip trying to ignore Merlin prattling on for hours about some strange detail of village life.

Merlin is quiet for a moment, and when Arthur looks at his face, he can see that he’s been hit by one of his strange mood swings. Merlin’s been the strangest person Arthur knows from the first time they’ve met, so Arthur has almost gotten used to it despite his fight to the contrary. His sudden changes remain odd, at least.

“How does becoming king work.” Arthur generally doesn’t think Merlin’s actually stupid, but there are times when he wonders if his first impression of his intelligence was correct. Merlin waves a hand (and one of Arthur’s shirts). “Your father took over Camelot, didn’t he? He wasn’t born king of Camelot.”

“You amaze me, Merlin. I never could have guessed you pay that much attention to current events.” Merlin is annoyingly good at ignoring insults. He’s especially good at ignoring accurate insults. Arthur just takes it as a chance to teach him. “The current Camelot is a good deal larger than it once was, as it now covers both the land that was already named Camelot and my father’s kingdom.”

“So, he was already a king, then?” Merlin asks, as if the answer could possibly be no.

“Of course. Did you think he was some sort of peasant who somehow managed to take charge of a kingdom just like that?”

“Well, I supposed he would’ve had an army to help. With swords and things.”

“Completely hopeless,” Arthur tells the air.

Merlin, of course, remains completely unabashed. He doesn’t adopt a servant’s quiet attitude, either. “What was that whole ceremony about being named heir about?” As if there’s nothing else to say about the ceremony. But Merlin doesn’t know that there had been anything special about the knight that had crashed through the window to make his challenge. Well, he doesn’t know that there’s anything more special about him than that he’d been an opponent animated by magic, but it’s not the first time Merlin had seen something like that. “You’re the king’s son. Doesn’t that just mean you’re the heir? A king can’t just go and pick out some random knight and tell him that he’s the heir now, right?”

“My father wouldn’t.” No matter how much of a disappointment Arthur is, his father isn’t a man who gives up easily. Merlin’s ideas of how the world works are ridiculous, but Arthur can admit that there’s part of him that could see Uther winning a kingdom through pure force of will – no matter who he was born to. “But a king can choose his heir. There are times when a son may prove unfit to rule, or a king may not have an heir of his body. He would no doubt choose another member of his family. There are usually cousins hanging around somewhere.”

“Do you have cousins?” The very concept seems to boggle Merlin. For someone who can take the strangest things in stride, he can be overwhelmed by perfectly normal details.

“Distant ones, yes. They serve in their father’s lands, so the people of Camelot might not take to them easily. But if my father had taken one of them in and raised them as his heir…” His father wouldn’t even dream of it, but Arthur had paid some attention to his history lessons. He’d always tried to pay attention to all his lessons. He had known he was to be king, and his father had always been clear about the standards he expected of his heir.

“What if a king had more than one son?” Merlin clearly remains overwhelmed by the concept of family.

“It’s a common situation.” Arthur knows already that Merlin would ignore his dry tone, but he has to try.

“Sounds like it could be trouble. What if he named another one heir instead of the oldest? Could be like how it was with Young Gilber and the cow.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “As pleased as I am with proof that you sometimes think about things, you should focus on making sure my clothes are packed neatly, rather than royal inheritance.”

“I’m the one who doesn’t think?” Merlin says, indignantly. Arthur wouldn’t want a servant who muttered under his breath but it’s a mark of how generous a master Arthur is that he decides to pretend that Merlin has a shred of sense and ignores him.

Morgana smells the pungent odor several moments before Arthur storms into her rooms. He’s extremely well-scrubbed and dressed in clothes far too simple to be his – even if they had fit better. He’s rather too muscular for them, she notes.

“Flaming. Cows.” He glares at her, or possibly the wall.

Lord Hubert has always been a dreadful bore, and Morgana had cheerfully wished Arthur a nice trip, and good luck for one of the hunts that would no doubt be organized. It’s what he deserves for all the times he’s complained at length about Hubert’s failures as a hunter, when Morgana didn’t have that much escape. Arthur didn’t have to spend time with Lady Anne, who matched her husband perfectly as she was exactly as boring as he was. Morgana can’t remember cows featuring prominently.

As Arthur is uninjured, Morgana can enjoy his suffering without a pang of regret. Even with the smell wafting around him in her room.

“Have you seen cow shit on fire?” Came Merlin’s voice as he followed Arthur into the room – at a distance – talking with Gwen, who had a hand firmly covering her mouth. Arthur doesn’t even turn to lecture Merlin for his language. “You should’ve seen it! Not smelled it. If you think this is bad – it’s nothing in comparison to before I dunked him in the stream. Almost nothing. And you should’ve seen how fast they moved!” Morgana would’ve been able to guess that Merlin moved fast enough to avoid Arthur’s fate from his smugness even without the lack of smell.

Arthur moves his glare from the wall to focus more completely on Morgana. “There is no chance that I would have ever been killed by flaming cow excrement.”

“That makes it sound like the cow was the bit that was on fire.” Merlin says. He looks possibly even more cheerful when Arthur swivels to turn his glare on him.

“Sword practice, now,” Arthur says, grabbing Merlin by the collar and dragging him towards the door.

“But you sent Galahad to wash –”

Morgana is sure that eventually she’ll stop laughing every time she makes the mistake of meeting Gwen’s eyes, but it hasn’t stopped yet. She can’t say that Arthur doesn’t live up to his promise of coming to see her after he’s faced one of her visions.

Morgana finds Arthur in the physician’s chambers, as she had expected when Galahad appeared at her door. The squire leaves her to trot to Arthur’s side. Despite everyone’s serious expressions it makes for an amusing picture: Arthur is leaning over Merlin’s shoulder to try to get a look at the book in front of him and Galahad attempting to mimic Arthur at Merlin other shoulder, though he’s not tall enough to lean in the same way.

Morgana hadn’t been surprised when Galahad appeared at her door. All day she had felt a tension in the air as if right before a storm. She had known even before she’d seen the knights return to Camelot in something other than the exact order Arthur insists on if everything has gone well, though not so ragged as to suggest an immediate threat.

Over the last year, or perhaps even longer, Morgana had found herself growing more apprehensive when Arthur rode out even on routine matters. She had felt something similar when she’d been a child and struck by nightmares of her father’s death when Arthur left. Her fear – not that she would’ve called it that or even admitted to concern – had gone down over the years; every time Arthur came riding back or she saw his talents as a warrior grow. When she saw how his men would follow him. The fear tucked just below her heart could never be fully erased. There would always be part of Morgana that remembered her father riding away never to return, but it faded. And then it had started to return, for no reason that she could see.

Now, Morgana suspects it had been for reasons she could see in her dreams, dreams that had likely been there even when Gaius’ potion had been strong enough to stop the visions. She had thought potions had removed all her dreams, and she hadn’t objected to the loss. Her father used to listen to her chattering about her dreams over breakfast, but she’d known that she should keep them secret from anyone else. Without her father listening, she had no reason to want to hold onto her dreams.

Morgana allows herself to take in her visions these days, and so some of the irrational concern for Arthur’s safety has softened. Now she has very rational concerns. She can’t let them show even so.

“Weren’t you supposed to be on a small hunt?” Morgana asks, raising an eyebrow. “I take it you ran into more aggressive prey?”

“Aggressive enough to kill Sir Bedivere,” Arthur says, shortly. That explains the extra layer of tension to his shoulders. Not just at facing a dangerous – and from the book in front of Merlin, no doubt magical – creature, but the weight he always bears when one of his knights is killed under unexpected circumstances. Morgana had known Sir Bedivere only in passing, but she knew that Arthur had valued him.

If they were different people, Morgana might have put a hand on his shoulder. “A good man,” she says instead.

“A good knight,” Arthurs says. She knows that will be the end if it.

Merlin is still focused completely on the book in front of him. Morgana shouldn’t be surprised by his focus. He may not always be the best servant by certain traditional definitions, but even Arthur would admit that Merlin works hard – while complaining about everything else to make sure people don’t think he’s complimenting him. Yet Merlin usually takes note of her. Morgana is used to people watching her. It’s how she had spotted the look in his eyes that didn’t quite match how much he smiled.

“It was the Questing Beast,” Merlin says, pushing the book forward so that Arthur can get a better look. It’s one of the bestiaries that Merlin took from the library ‘for a quick look’ and hasn’t returned. Morgana has had the pleasure of watching Merlin dart from shelf to shelf to avoid Geoffrey catching sight of him when he has to get another book to avoid being told to give them back.

Merlin raises his eyebrow, probably not in a conscious imitation of Arthur. “It’s some other creature with the head of a snake, the body of a giant cat and the feet of a deer? There must be loads that fit. I should look longer.”

“Haha. Don’t try to become the court jester just yet.” Arthur frowns at the picture. “Did you think the feet looked like a deer’s?”

“What? When did I have the chance to study it? I was busy with not being killed. Didn’t see that they didn’t look like deer feet. This is nature taking revenge on you for all those hunting trips. I knew it would happen someday. I’d hoped I wouldn’t be there to see it, but I’m never that lucky.” He looks appropriately mournful.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic, Merlin.”

Morgana coughs, pointedly, to interrupt their double act. “Didn’t you run into a unicorn? I believe you accepted the existence of creatures from myth. You said you did.”

Arthur has the decency to accept that with a nod. “Alright, no matter what the important part is that we were attacked and have no idea what it might do next. Deer tracks with that weight will be easy to track, but that won’t come to much if we can’t kill it.”

“I’ve never heard the myth of the Questing Beast, sire.” Galahad says, giving up his attempt to make out what’s written in the book. Arthur says he’s taken well to learning his letters, but the flowing hand of the bestiary is difficult to follow.

“It’s said that a Questing Beast shows up to foreshadow trouble,” Arthur explains.

“That’s a pretty rubbish myth,” Merlin says, judgmentally.

Arthur glares at him. “I’m not the one who came up with it, Merlin. Whatever it is, it’s something people fear and that needs taking care of.”

“All I’m saying that it sounds like a self-enforcing myth. If a monster shows up that not really foreshadowing trouble. It’s more like that is the trouble right there.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur looks at Morgana. “Have you seen any attacks.”

“No, not yet.” The prickling sense of unease isn’t a vision. It’s clearly a dangerous beast – and a deadly one. Morgana can’t help but still feel pleased – more pleased than she should – that Arthur brought her into his little pre-council meeting. It’s the sensible choice and so shouldn’t deserve that much credit. Yet for all that Uther is mostly willing to hear her when she speaks about her visions, she always has to go to him.

Arthur straightens his shoulders. “I will report what has been discovered to the king, so he can decide what to do.”

“I bet he’s going to say you should go out and kill it, Merlin says.

“Gambling, Merlin? It’s a terrible habit, and worse when you have a face like yours.” Arthur doesn’t bother to look back as he strides towards the door. Galahad hurries to catch up, and Merlin trails along. Morgana doesn’t need foresight not to take Merlin’s bet so instead sits to look at the book herself. She can feel Merlin look back at her from the doorway, but she doesn’t look up to see his expression.

The king orders Arthur to ride out to kill the Questing Beast.

Morgana isn’t surprised that her dreams that night return to the theme of Arthur’s potential doom. Sometimes she’s amazed that he’s managed to avoid it for so long.

It doesn’t make it less irritating that so many of her dreams focus on Arthur.

Arthur is very quiet when he returns with his men. He announces the beast’s death to Uther in front of the court as expected, but he doesn’t even seem to notice Uther’s smile at his achievement. Morgana would’ve expected a certain amount of bragging. It wouldn’t even been unwarranted, really. He’d kill the creature, and not even lost many men in doing so. Instead, he doesn’t look like he hears Uther’s speech about the proof of their dominance over the dangers of the Old Religion, and he’s good at faking paying attention.

Morgana catches up with him outside the great hall.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sometimes, you have to be blunt. With Arthur, she can be blunt.

“Nothing’s wrong, Morgana.” It might have convinced someone who didn’t know him. Morgana understands Merlin’s look of skepticism (Merlin had popped up right behind Arthur once he’d seen Morgana come over to talk with him, it’s a talent that he could stand to demonstrate a little less obviously). It’s a very open expression, even by Merlin’s standards.

“You didn’t have a blow for blow account of your prowess.”

“If you’re so desperate to hear of the battle, I suppose I can oblige. I wouldn’t want you to miss out.” He manages something close to his proper smug look, but the shortness of his blow for blow account doesn’t help alleviate her concern. It doesn’t sound like there was more than one blow, but Morgana has heard Arthur spin less than that into a dramatic tale of his heroics. “And now I just have to hope that someone thought to prepare a hot bath,” he says, but while the words and pointed look at Merlin are almost right there’s no real feeling behind them.

Morgana catches hold of Merlin’s arm, pretending not to notice the tension at her touch and what looks to her like hidden relief when she lets go. Whatever problem he has with her, Morgana is certain he cares for Arthur. She thinks he knows that she does too.

“Do you know what’s wrong?”

Merlin shrugs, almost helplessly. “He’s been acting strangely since we found the lair. I didn’t see anything different than usual before then. He hit his head but that’s never helped before. He wasn’t even unconscious. I’m sure he’ll be back to his usual self soon.” He adds, the moment of openness covered again by an unconvincing smile.

“Yes, much to everyone’s misfortune,” Morgana takes the offered line, returning the smile with one just as honest. Hopefully, Merlin’s presence will help Arthur, but she can’t get anything useful from him.

Morgana leaves him and goes to look for Galahad instead.

To her surprise, Arthur’s squire seems more comfortable with her now than he’d been before he was convinced that she receives visions from the gods. Gwen is still her friend and her relationship with many of the knights has grown deeper than court games. They generally prefer not to die. Morgana has even found a sort of companionship with some of the priests who take part in the ceremonies. But none of that had been the same sort of sudden switch.

If asked beforehand, Morgana would’ve expected the opposite. She had confided in Galahad because his… tendency towards devotion had meant that she had felt there was a good chance that he would listen to her if she spoke of Arthur in danger. He had. Perhaps it’s not that strange that he had been overwhelmed by her status as a lady and the king’s ward and could simply respect her as a seer. Well, it is not that strange if you consider the nature of his strange attitudes.

Galahad is in the chapel, as she’d known he’d be when she didn’t see him at Arthur’s side. It’s a surprise to see Sir Pellinore with him in quiet conversation. Both of them stand and bow as soon as they see her.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says before they can ask to their clear relief.

Sir Pellinore smiles at her. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Lady Morgana. If we can go a few weeks before a new dangerous quest, I don’t think anyone will object. Not out loud. I didn’t hear any complaints that the prince took out the beast all on his own, while we had a chance to explore the caves.” Morgana likes Pellinore for his generous nature, and from all the times that he’d beat Arthur when they were training together for their knighthood.

“Perhaps we may even be able to go a month or more.” She can easily give him an honest smile.

“If there’s any mention of bulls, I’ll be the first to volunteer if there’s a fight.” He thumps Galahad on the shoulder. “If you’re not there, of course. You always win first in line.” It makes Galahad smile. “Is there some way I can assist you, my lady?”

“I have a few questions, if you have time.” Pellinore has known Arthur for a long time too, after all.

“If they’re about the Questing Beast, you’ll be the third today. I’m not sure it’s helped anyone yet, but I can try.” He sits back with a slight sigh. “My family has something of a history with the Questing Beast, yes, but it is not a history that holds many useful answers. It’s said that it always takes form on our land, no matter where it goes next.”

“Form?”

Pellinore doesn’t look around to make sure no one else is there, but Morgana gets the impression it’s because he already has made sure. “It’s said that the Questing Beast is summoned and given form by the Old Religion and will return again when summoned no matter how often it’s cut down in physical form.”

“Do you believe it truly can’t be killed?” That might be the answer to Arthur’s odd mood. He would start thinking about it being summoned again when he wasn’t around, or he might be in a bad mood because he felt the fight had ultimately ended in failure even if he had killed it.

Pellinore shrugs. “I couldn’t say. Knowing it was killed now is good enough for me. The prince has to consider deeper concerns.”

“One needs to settle their soul after an encounter with a creature of magic,” Galahad offers. Morgana tries not to obviously catch Pellinore’s eye. That definitely isn’t it. She can imagine what Arthur would say to ‘settle his soul’. “Besides,” Galahad adds in more practical tones, “They say it’s a sign of trouble to come. It doesn’t say that killing the Questing Beast means there won’t be trouble. Prince Arthur can’t discount that.

Morgana’s not sure she would say that with such certainty, but in the face of Galahad’s belief she doesn’t feel she can say he’s wrong. She can give Arthur time to see if he’ll snap back to his usual self. It rarely takes long.

Morgana dreams.

The Questing Beast stands before her. She knows that’s what it is, even if it looks nothing like the monster in her visions or the illustrations in the bestiary. It has the head of a snake and the body of a cat and is small enough that it could curl up in her lap. It’s beautiful enough that she wishes she could hold it so.

After a long look, the Questing Beast bounds away into the trees. Morgana follows, catching sight of a flash of white against the trees every time she thinks she may have lost the trail completely. There’s a trail forming underneath her own feet, which makes it easy to look forward without having to worry about tripping over some unforeseen hazard.

At the edges of her eyes, Morgana sees other stories. There’s a man hanging from a tree, eating an apple as he idly swings back and forth by the rope tied around his ankle. There’s a girl chasing after her sister, not caring that it takes her far from any safe path. There’s a woman that steps out of a tree to dance with the spirits that join her one by one. There’s a being of bark and twiglike fingers that picks up a bundle and starts humming a song to settle the baby’s tears.

Morgana has her own path, and she doesn’t turn away from it to look closer at any of the tantalizing images.

When she finally catches up with the Questing Beast it’s drink from a pool. It looks up at her with shining eyes and she knows it’s pleased that she’s there. She smiles; the creature’s happiness reflected in her heart. Morgana wades into the water, staying close to sure but letting herself enjoy the feeling of digging her toes into the mud. She doesn’t remember the last time she’d been so sure she belonged. Has she ever been so certain?

‘I gave the prince a vision of what could come to pass,’ the Questing Beast says. Its voice is clear as a bell, and full of laughter. ‘It is his choice what to do with it. For you, there’s a different choice. I can give you what he was shown or give you a gift all your own.’

Morgana scoops up a handful of water, watching as the water falls between her fingers. She doesn’t have to speak for her choice to be clear.

The Questing Beast laughs, and the light of the moon makes the lake glow with flowers. ‘You’ve won me a bet. Wake, Morgana.

Morgana opens her eyes to an unexpected light.

The unlit candle that had been set on a table by her bed suddenly burns bright.

Chapter Text

The call of the raven is still ringing in Morgana’s ears when she wakes to the sound of loud drilling and banging noises that show that Uther’s treasure hunting expedition is going ahead at full force. No one has been able to convince Uther that it’s a bad idea. Unsurprisingly. It’s exceedingly rare that anyone can convince Uther that he’s had a bad idea. He’s ignored both Morgana’s sense that there was danger (‘of course there’s danger when magic may be involved’) and Arthur’s attempts to try to divert him without making it clear that he objected foremost to the tomb robbing (‘it will give the guards something to do with themselves, we’re fully secure’).

Yes, the old kings of Camelot weren’t their ancestors, but Arthur’s discomfort with disturbing the rest of the dead is only heightened by Uther’s casual attitude. Not that Arthur had tried to convince Uther again after his first attempt. Morgana doesn’t know if it’s sense or weakness. Not that Uther had listened to her repeated warnings. Arthur might call her too much of an idealist, which is better than holding onto too few.

Overall, Morgana doesn’t think that the amount of time – never a particularly large amount -Uther listens to her has changed much since he’d accepted her visions as glimpses of the future. Maybe that’s not entirely true. There’s always a good chance that he does listen and simply doesn’t see them as a reason to change his plans.

Morgana supposes she could’ve tried harder. Uther waves away ‘bad feelings’ with easy condescension, but if she came up with a good enough story he might have decided to be a little more careful. Not stop him from chasing after the potential treasure hidden away in the dangerous depths of the castle but make him at least think. Morgana has never lied about a vision, but she blurs the line between vision and dreams easily. Perhaps Morgana would’ve thought about it if she hadn’t spent the last few nights covering her candles with glass cups in hope that it would stop the flames from catching anyone’s attention if they flared up after another nightmare.

Gwen’s looks are growing more and more concerned as Morgana pushes her away, but Morgana knows she won’t say anything. For the first time, Morgana truly can’t share her secrets. Gwen has no reason to feel sympathy for a sorcerer. She shouldn’t be put in danger because she cares for Morgana.

Morgana has opposed Uther’s stance on magic from the first time she saw someone die for his inflexible judgement. It was in her fifth year of living in Camelot. She had known about the Great Purge, of course, but she knew it only as a story and a brief one at that. She hadn’t thought about what it meant. It was ancient history, and she lived in the present. She knew of the king’s ban on magic in Camelot, but the same was true in Gawant, among other kingdoms. She knew that magic was dangerous.

Then there had been the woman.

Afterwards – after the axe had come down and the woman was dead, and the crowd was silent – Morgana hunted down everything she could find on Berta. She has done the same for every following execution. She’s good at getting people to tell her things, even things they weren’t entirely supposed to, but there had only been so much information to find. There’s always a limit. There’s always Uther’s words ringing out from the balcony.

Berta had been close in age with Uther. It had come as a surprise as the small, round woman had seemed practically his opposite. Perhaps except for how she had stood proud before the headsman. She had been a cook by trade, but there had always been quiet rumors naming her as someone to go to for little sicknesses that resisted normal cures. For small workings of a quiet woman. She was accused of aiding a fleeing sorcerer, and, worse, she was accused of working with him as another magic user. If it was only the first, she might have been granted a different death, Uther had told Morgana, as if that would stop what he saw as a tantrum.

Uther had declared the suggestion of magic more than enough reason for the public execution. Berta hadn’t denied Uther’s charges. She hadn’t denied that she had or that it was possible she may have treated a sorcerer. She was a healer in her own small way, and so she healed. She had stood and denied that there had been any plot that lived outside Uther’s head. Her death had been quick after that. Her sons spent three weeks in the cells before Uther had oh so generously exiled them instead of executing them as they showed no signs of magic.

Uther had ignored everything Morgana had said then, as he had with every follow execution. There had only been a few during her time in Camelot. Uther claimed it was proof that his methods worked. Morgana didn’t hesitate to say he was wrong and that his methods brought down more trouble on Camelot rather than preventing it. He dismissed her ‘concern’ as coming from a woman’s soft heart. Something which he occasionally said was the only reason he didn’t respond to something close to treason with anything harsher than words.

Morgana dryly called her predictions as coming from a woman’s good sense, and she has proof that she’s right. Berta’s sons had failed to launch a successful attack, but they had gathered a following that Uther refused to acknowledge then or now. Hugh’s aunt had come closer. Mary Collins had almost killed Arthur. Those were just some of the direct incidents, not counting sorcerers like Tauren or Mikel who had embraced more indirect methods. Not to mention the secrecy around magic that let someone like Valient kill. And if it was a marker of a soft heart to believe that killing people who meant no wrong was injustice (or even those who did mean harm but had good reason for it) was injustice, then Morgana would take a soft heart. Not that anyone would believe it.

None of that means that magic isn’t dangerous. It had been magic that had killed Gwen’s father, along with so many others who were guilty of nothing but living in the city. It had been magic that almost sent them to war where many more would die, and the tension between the two kingdoms still simmers. As much as Morgana can see reason to the sorcerers’ resentment it had been magic that Tauren would’ve used to kill the king. And now it seems that magic runs in her veins.

Morgana wonders what her father would’ve thought. He’d been a close friend of Uther’s and had rode with him on campaign. He must have stood at Uther’s side during the purge. What would he have done if he had discovered magic growing within his own family? What would Gaius have thought? What would Arthur think of his offer of protection when offered to a witch instead of an innocent who could’ve been wrongly accused? Morgana knows what Uther would think if he learned that his ward did have magic and was not just – as well as? – seer. She can imagine the expression on every face she knows or has known as if she’s trapped in a room of infinite mirrors, each showing a different face.

Morgana hasn’t seen much magic, truly. What she has seen has either been the most minor of tricks or a deadly force used by an uncaring hand. The fires that spring up with her anger, the window that smashed in a storm that no one had expected that night… Morgana has always fought against being weak, but she hadn’t realized how terrifying it could be to be powerful. How chilling it could feel to have that power rush through her as if a torrent and her nothing more than a conduit to something greater.

It turns out it’s much harder to dismiss Uther’s claims of the inherent evil of magic when he speaks of others rather than when she experiences it herself.

If it truly is all Morgana’s magic, and not a series of tricks and coincidences that are working to fool her into believing in some greater danger. Magic is an all powerful force in myths, but in real life it’s a matter of spells and carefully used items and, yes, probably other methods that only magic users know – but if it was so powerful how could they have fallen to Uther? It was only in legends that storms raged at the command of a sorcerer.

Morgana’s plate is overflowing as she tries to convince herself of that. She doesn’t have time to get involved in Uther’s latest, stupid scheme. She should’ve remembered that the plans of kings can quickly become everyone’s problem. As can sorcerers.

Morgana dreams.

No, Morgana remembers, just as the castle remembers.

Morgana has seen the man sitting on top of the low stone wall before. His hair is still raven-black and his features still as sharp, but he looks younger in some way that she couldn’t fully describe as a contrast to before when he had looked ageless – as much raven as man. Now he’s not just younger, but lighter in spirit.

“I knew I’d find you here,” a woman says in a language Morgana’s almost certain she wouldn’t be able to understand if she was awake. Her hair is a pure white, as if that of an old woman, but she looks barely more than Morgana’s age. Her cloak is clasped by an ebony raven. She sits down on the man’s lap without a trace of hesitation. As if he’s just another man.

“I told you I would be,” the raven king says.

“No, you didn’t. You just knew I’d understand you. If you send one more raven to serve as a clue, my brother will start insisting on marriage,” she says, her tone not entirely teasing.

“Would that be so bad?” He asks, wrapping his arms around her.

“I’d rather you asked yourself,” she says, tartly.

The raven laughs and the walls have grown high and dark.

“It seems rather…dramatic,” says the rather unimpressive, brown haired man as he looks up at what will some day become a castle. He has a simple crown to go with relatively simple garb, but while he should fade to nothing next to the power of the raven beside him, instead his presence is dull but still firmly present. There’s something to be said for that sort of solidity.

“You asked for a castle,” the sorcerer croaks.

“Yes, yes, and don’t think I’m not pleased.” He turns towards the sorcerer but seems to realize the attention isn’t on him.

“It will be my masterpiece,” the sorcerer says, not noticing the king’s sideways look.

The castle – or at least the deepest parts of the castle – are almost grown. And ‘grown’ is the word, rather than built. For building has begun in other places and there’s a clear difference between the two.

“Father.” It’s a young man speaking, now. He holds a staff, which seems more a necessity than a prop given his milky white eyes and the pattern of scarring around them.

The raven doesn’t turn his head to look. “I told you before. I have no son.”

“I have heard the stones singing,” the man says, having hidden his flinch at the raven’s words. “They speak of the great dance.”

“Aye. The greatest that will be seen, for those with the eyes to see it.” The words seem careless. He doesn’t even care enough to try to make a pointed insult.

“I can see it clearly,” the young man says.

“Are you sure?” The king asks, putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder. They’re inside the walls. He’s grown older as the raven hadn’t, older and made older still by the weight of kingship on his shoulders.

The young man nods. “I have to stop him.”

“And once you have…” The king asks, not quite a question.

“Then it will be the end of it.” He gives a short bark of laughter. “This shall be my last day here, and my last working of magic. I will go to the Isle of the Blessed, to serve the gods, but only with my hands. You will not have to worry about the danger a son might prove to be once is father is killed. The prophecy was right after all. In the end, we shall die together.

Morgana remembers this, as the castle remembers.

Morgana knows she can do more, because the castle remembers what she will do. She sees a young man with familiar, pale eyes standing next to an unfamiliar knight with long brown hair and a glare directed at Arthur’s back. She sees Gwen sitting, looking out over a courtyard with a child’s blanket half-finished in her lap. She sees Uther – the lines of his face grown deeper with age – standing in the door of her room, his face red.

She sees –

The stones start to sing louder and louder, and Morgana wakes with a crash as stone splinters.

Morgana clutches her cloak tight as she moves through dark corridors, the floor feeling unsteady under her feet.

Morgana almost laughs when she realizes her feet have taken her to Gaius’ rooms. They still remember the past, when she might have been able to find someone that she could trust here. Another part of her that’s locked into the past. Now there are only strangers. Kestrel and his cool distance from the world. Merlin and his secrets kept carefully secure from everyone’s eyes. She assumes they’ll still be asleep. Gaius might have been awake, but he’d always claimed that an old man needed far less sleep than a young one when she’d apologized for coming to him so late. She lets herself step into the main room because of that, in the hope that there will be some trace of Gaius’ spirit still left there that could offer her some comfort.

Merlin is awake. He’s sitting at the table with a book in front of him. He looks up at the sound, freezing when he sees her.

“Merlin.”

“My lady.”

They stare at each other. Morgana doesn’t know what he sees. She just sees Merlin, quiet and almost sad. If there had been a flash of the usual suspicion – what she’s always seen as suspicion, or has it been always? – it faded quickly. She should turn and go.

“Morgana…?” He’s tentative, and it makes him look very young. She remembers how he’d looked back when he’d first arrived. She had been too lost in her grief to pay much attention to the gawky country boy that only served as another reminder that Gaius was gone, but now she can think back and realize how uncertain of his future he must have felt when he had reached Camelot to find no one waiting. She can see Gwen’s friend – and Arthur’s – and someone who’s word Uther would never believe over hers. He can’t betray her.

She steps to the table, opening her hand so the small shards of stone fall onto the table.

“I can do magic.”

Merlin’s face isn’t always as open as he pretends, but she’s certain his shock is completely genuine. “Magic? What do you mean?”

“It’s not just visions. The fire, the storm… and when I woke up there was this broken from the walls. It must be magic. But I swear, I’ve never learned a single spell. I don’t have any talisman. How can it be magic?” She can hear the pleading note in her voice, but she can’t find it in her to be embarrassed that she’s practically begging him, because she needs to hear someone else say it. To acknowledge the impossible. To know the truth, no matter how dangerous it is for her to want anyone else to know if it truly is magic rather than some sort of insanity brought on by her visions.

Merlin is silent for a moment, and Morgana expects that will be it. She should be grateful. He hasn’t fled in fear. He hasn’t called out for the guards. Perhaps he sees that it would be better to pretend this is just a moment of madness. And, really, isn’t it a moment of madness to speak so to him? It would be safer for him – for both of them – if he claimed it that.

“I believe you,” Merlin says, and when she looks into his eyes, she sees only sympathy. “It must be frightening. In the stories, magic can do surprising things if you’re upset. It acts all on its own.”

“I didn’t think I could be frightened again, after everything that I’ve seen in the visions.” Morgana sits down across from him. Merlin had been there, when she’d come to confess what she’d seen to save Arthur’s life. He’d been there as she’d waited for Uther’s judgement. Then, she had been uncertain about how he might react to what she told herself she only saw as dreams. This can’t be dismissed as just a dream. “Uther says that magic is evil, that it corrupts your soul.” If he learned of this, he would no doubt throw away everything he’d said before about her visions having no connection to magic when instead they were clearly the first stirrings of her power. How many will die for having said they weren’t magic? Her death wouldn’t be the last.

“I don’t think it’s evil,” Merlin says. She almost laughs, but he sounds as certain as Uther ever has. He smiles at her, and for the first time in a long time it seems real. “Don’t ask me about souls, I steer away from all that.”

“What should I do?” Somehow, Morgana doesn’t feel ridiculous for asking. Merlin might be just a boy, and a peasant boy from a small village at that. He hasn’t grown up knowing about either magic or the politics of Camelot. Yet, in the dim light of the room, in the bubble of this night, it seems right to ask and to listen.

“I don’t know, but I know there’s nothing wrong with you for having magic. And you’ve handled the visions.”

“Thank you,” she says, meaning it. He hasn’t offered any real practical help, but his words are far more important than that. That he sits here with her means far more.

“…Where are rocks from?” He asks, eventually. “Did a wall fall down? That might be hard to hide.” She does laugh then, trying to imagine how he thinks he could hide a broken wall. Maybe he’d throw a sheet over it.

“There were just a few splinters. I dreamed of much worse.” She feels back on familiar territory now, confident as she lay out what she’d gotten from her vision. “I think Uther has found the tomb of Cornelius Sigan.”

“And there are probably traps all over it,” Merlin says, with a familiar resigned glume.

“Ones that might bring the whole castle down,” Morgana agrees, thinking back to the humming of the stones.

“Maybe if we ask nicely again, he’ll decide to dig somewhere else? Maybe not.” He doesn’t say that Uther would probably risk literally bringing the castle down around them over changing his path because of the threat of a sorcerer, dead or alive.

“Uther would risk it rather than ‘give in’ to a sorcerer, even one ling dead.” Morgana can say it, because Merlin can’t.

Merin gives her a quick smile, before frowning down at the shard of stone. “If there are traps waiting to be set off… maybe you could try to focus your visions to see what they are, magically. I heard you can do that. Kestrel looked into a lot of stuff about seers, to see if he could find more to help you. Most of them were about sorcerers using spells to see stuff…”

“You have a spell?” Morgana is touched that Kestrel has kept looking, when he knows how dangerous it would be for him if Uther found out.

Merlin shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that. Not a single spell, no matter where he looked. You’d think there might be one. It’s more just a note in a story about something else, not an actual sorcerer writing things down so that other people could use it.” He scratches his head. “Maybe you could hold the stone and think really hard? There are – you said you saw something related to the sones?”

“…I don’t have a better idea,” Morgana has to admit. She closes her hand around the shards of stone, ignoring how they cut into her. They both sit there for an awkward moment. “I don’t think it will work if you keep staring at me.”

“Sorry!” Morgana isn’t certain she can do it even if Merlin isn’t watching, but it’s amusing to see him jump up to spin in the other direction.

Morgana closes her eyes, trying to focus on the stones. She grips them together, ignoring the pain. It’s not the same as her visions usually are, but hadn’t she done this already tonight? She pushes forward, and she thinks she can see something. A small crystal, rolling away from a staff and stopping with a sickening jerk. No, there’s something sickening inside the crystal, the ‘stop’ was because Merlin poked her. She opens her eyes again, glaring when she sees Merlin staring at her wide eyed. He raises his hands with another apology. “You looked strange,” he offers in his defense.

“I think I’ve seen the greatest danger. There’s some sort of crystal he left behind.”

“That makes sense.” Merlin says. “Crystals come up in stories about magic all the time, I mean. Just tripping over them, practically. If that’s what it is, then I could sneak in and put a blanket over it or something to stop the king from seeing it. Problem solved.” He’s joking, but after all the trouble he’s gotten himself into because he’s willing to help, Morgana knows it’s not just a joke.

“We could go in, after I tell Arthur I had a vision, and I can see if it’s there.” Arthur will help her get by Uther, even if he’ll complain about it first.

“Or that,” Merlin agrees. He blinks. “You’re bleeding! Open your hand, I’ll take care of it.”

Morgana lets him check to see if there are any stone fragments stuck in her hand, feeling at peace for the first time in – she doesn’t know how long, as he carefully removes them. She always feels better when she has a plan on how to go forward, but the relief goes far deeper. She has magic. She’s had magic from her first vision, and she’s helped people with those visions. This is just another way that she can help. Perhaps one that’s allows her to be more forceful than just having to convince enough people of the right meaning of a dream.

And now she has at least one person she knows she can trust.

Chapter Text

Uther’s reluctance when Morgana reminds him of her planned pilgrimage to her father’s grave is almost palpable. Morgana does her best not to grit her teeth. She’s had to do that more and more over the last months. She doesn’t know if he’s truly grown worse or if she’s simply grown worse at dealing with him. She hadn’t thought she’d closed her eyes to what he was like, but it feels as if they’ve been opened again. She’s been stuck within her own head – drowning in the ocean of her own fears – and now that she’s finally able to come up for breath the world no longer looks as it had before she was pulled under the water.

Perhaps nothing has changed, but everything’s different.

Uther is her king, but as her guardian he felt much less like her guard. Before her visions, Uther had rarely asked for details of her schedule and even then, Morgana had known it was a mark of trust more than disinterest. She had known, and yet sometimes felt that it meant something less compared to Arthur – and then she had been caught in a trap of guilt at wanting Uther to step in as her father when her father was dead.

When Morgana had come of age, she had thought that she had slipped free of that trap. She rather thinks it’s more like when Arthur had scoffed at how poorly she’d hidden her trap only to confidently walk into the properly hidden one right behind it. He had sulked for ages before finally trying to make an apology that had mostly involved saying he didn’t know girls could do that. Morgana had thrown a cup at his head. They had been children.

Morgana had cried because it had been her father who taught her and her father was gone, too wretched to properly call him stupid. Arthur apologized again and put his arms in an awkward attempt to hold her. It wasn’t a good hug. Arthur was stiff in his discomfort and dirty from where he’d fallen to get out of the trap. The difference in their heights meant Morgana accidentally wiped her nose on his hair. She was still angry at him and knowing that he would’ve preferred to flee to the other side of the castle rather than be in a room with a crying girl in it hadn’t made her more forgiving. But she’d held onto him for a long time.

Uther had scolded Arthur for his disheveled state, and for running off to play. Morgana hadn’t told Uther why she’d been crying, but he would’ve been indulgent even if she had been better at wiping them away. Morgana wasn’t Uther’s heir, and she wasn’t his son. Morgana had been jealous of that – Morgana is still jealous of that, but she’s old enough now that she would pick the frustration of indulgence over the restrictions that Arthur’s position held.

(“Kestrel says Uther’s afraid of him,” Merlin said, as Morgana tried to see something in entrails and Merlin tried not to see the entrails. He could be very squeamish.

“Arthur?” Morgana asked, too surprised to wonder when the topic had come up.

“That’s what I said!” Merlin’s look of vindication immediately turned sickly, and he’d turned his head away again. “How could he be afraid of Arthur.”

“Uther’s wary of him, but he’s not afraid. Arthur’s far too loyal,” she tried to keep her tone neutral.

Merlin seemed to forget his squeamishness entirely as he just stared at her. “Why would he be afraid?” It was a little impressive that he managed to control his volume even when outraged. “Arthur’s his son.”

“Yes, Arthur’s his son and heir. His only heir. Arthur will be king someday, but only when Uther’s dead. Of course there’s always some tension. Didn’t you hear about King Felix’s problems with his heir? You were in court.” She knew that Merlin could drift off, but there had been shouting.

He stared at her for a moment. “Right. ‘Of course’. The whole lot of you really are insane.” That last might have been supposed to be under his breath, but Merlin wasn’t very good at that. Probably because it was pretty funny to watch Arthur try to ignore him. He shook his head, but when he met her eyes again his gaze was serious, “Arthur isn’t loyal just to his father.”)

Morgana felt the restrictions of being the ‘Court Seer’, but it was because Uther wanted to keep his oracle safe in his hands rather than fear of what she could do. It’s almost funny, Morgana had seen her own fear reflected in everyone else’s eyes, and even through her new vision she sees that fear in so many. It’s not there when Uther looks at her. It’s not the same as when they used to go out hawking or when she would beat him in a race, but sometimes Morgana would swear that there was a trace of pride to his expression.

“I could ride with you,” Uther says.

It’s worse that his concern isn’t entirely unreasonable. Morgana is sensible enough (she’s learned to be, now that she has so much to hide) not to ride towards trouble as Uther would take any excuse to limit her freedom even more. The journey to her father’s resting place isn’t risk free. The best path is too close to the border with Mercia to be truly safe when there’s trouble between the kingdoms. He had been lain to rest near where he’d fallen, after all.

Camelot and Merica aren’t at war, but there had been a notable lack of sincerity when they’d parted in peace. Bayard’s forces having practically reached the gate had left the question of how long Uther might have otherwise held him linger uneasily. They were lucky that it had ended as well as it did.

If it weren’t for Gwen, there’s a good chance that Camelot would be at war right now. It was Gwen who’d gotten the belongings of every servant that had come with Bayard checked without alerting the king. Without alerting either of the kings. It had been Gwen who had found verification that each servant was who they were except the handmaiden who mysteriously disappeared when the search began. It was Gwen who’d found one a noble whose word Uther was likely to trust within the group Bayard had brought with him. …Morgana had been rather shocked by it all, not that she let that slip to Gwen. She had given her own help as a shield and she had spoken about how Uther himself frequently spoke of how people were deceived by sorcerers, but she knew who deserved everyone’s gratitude and respect.

Gwen’s work had gone – to no surprise to Gwen or Morgana – practically unnoticed. Morgana suspects that Uther forgets Gwen exists when she’s not directly in front of him (if he notices her even then), which is possibly better than the alternative but that doesn’t make it less unfair that she wasn’t granted the honor she earned. Morgana had only managed to cut off her rants on the matter when she saw how unhappy it was making her friend.

…For all that Morgana would’ve thought far less of Arthur if he hadn’t gone on his quest, she knows that even Gwen’s work wouldn’t have been enough to stop the war if he had died. She knows what war can take from people. She still thinks Arthur made the right choice.

Still, even if the peace with Merica is tense, they are at peace. And Morgana isn’t planning to travel simply with Gwen. She’s grateful that they’ll have a few knights to round out their party. She wouldn’t risk Gwen’s safety, or her own. Uther knows her. He knows that she wouldn’t take an unnecessary risk. He knows that it’s less than a day’s ride there and back, and there’s nothing here that she’s working on.

“That’s very kind, my lord,” Morgana says, rather than any of the words she’s like to say, “But you have court today.” And meetings and work that can’t be put aside until they’ll be pushed far from the anniversary.

Uther studies her, and so Morgana makes sure not to show a trace of resentment. She reminds herself again of the trouble a loss of temper could carry with it. She doesn’t let herself think of how little she wants to travel with Uther. She doesn’t let herself imagine him standing by her father’s grave. She pretends that this is the same as any of the other pilgrimages she’s made over the years, hard enough that she thinks Uther believes it.

“Next time, perhaps. I’ll see you off tomorrow,” he says, and she carefully doesn’t let out a breath of relief.

Arthur simply wishes her well on her trip.

Morgana’s first thought when the bandits attack is for their guard. She’s been trained to handle herself enough that right on its heels is by what road and what means she and Gwen might escape. Unfortunately, the bandits are trained enough to have cut off their best path. Morgana knows the only sensible option is to stop, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stop. It’s worse to know that they’ve been waiting for her.

If Morgana could use her magic, then it would be very simple. She would take the risk of having her magic found out if it would free them. She doesn’t like to think that she’s only so certain of that because she doesn’t have any magic to use on them. In what feels like a bitter twist of fate, when her fear of herself had faded so too it seems had the power of her magic. She hasn’t woken to an unsummoned storm, but she hasn’t been able to summon a storm herself, either. She knows the risk of using magic in Uther’s court, but it’s maddening that she can’t.

Merlin hadn’t had any answers, as she’d known he wouldn’t. He’d done his best, but it was unfair even to ask. It was even more unfair to be upset by his suggestions. But the idea that her magic had tired itself out in trying to make her acknowledge its existence makes it feel like a parasite latched to her soul. Some sentient creature - separate from her and so not something that can ever be completely contained. And that maybe some sort of ‘focus’ will help has only sent them down a rabbit hole of any divination method they’ve ever heard or read about.

To Morgana’s relief, Merlin had accepted her apologies for snapping at him over the lack of answers. She doesn’t think it was much – she finds it too easy to get angry to let her take it out on the underserving – but he still deserved the apology. Her friendship with Merlin is founded on deadly secrets, and sometimes it feels as strong as cold iron and other moments it feels as fragile as a butterfly’s wing. It’s a friendship that exists in the time outside of their normal lives. Sitting together late at night makes it easy to forget the differences between them.

In the light of day, it’s impossible for Morgana to forget the differences between her and Gwen in other people’s eyes. She can hear it in every beat of her heart as she runs while Gwen is left behind. Morgana knows that it’s the only thing she could do – that Gwen is right that she has to run. She won’t be able to get help if she’s held captive, and she’s not strong enough to take out all their captors. She can feel the fear building with every step. She feels guilty for the swoop of relief that comes when she sees Arthur, when her fear for Gwen is still burning bright.

Morgana almost chokes on the fear at Uther’s easy dismissal of Gwen. It’s not a surprise, but that doesn’t dull her rage. The fury builds inside her that she’s surprised to blink and not find the room blazing around her. Perhaps it’s only because the anger is directed at herself almost as much as at Uther. Uther is who he is, and Morgana knows that. She can’t help but think that maybe she should have stayed. She at least had value to them. But Gwen hadn’t, and that’s part of why they had run. But now she doesn’t know what will happen.

Morgana doesn’t know what she would’ve done if Arthur hadn’t taken her out of the room, and part of her is angry at him, too. He had turned to bring her back to Camelot when they’d found her, instead of going after Gwen. She wants to yell at him. She wants to let herself rage and hope for relief. But – she tries not to take it out on the undeserving. She has to try, because she had grown up with Uther and so knows what it looks like to stop believing that there are those who are undeserving.

Arthur won’t stop until he’s brought Gwen back. Morgana knows that. It tempers some of her anger, even as she doesn’t want it tempered. She has to believe Gwen will be fine. She has to stay behind and wait for other people to help her friend, because she can’t. Not even now.

Arthur has spent his entire life at court, as the king’s son. There were brief moments when he guilty thought about the noble children fostered at court, but that would have just left him at some other king’s court, and he never truly wished to be parted from his father. Not that he ever said that, of course. Even as a child he’d had the sense not to say anything so childish.

There are days Arthur needs to use the patience that comes from years of practice staying calm more than others. For all that Uther isn’t necessarily slow to anger, he’s quick to dismiss ‘complaints’ if he thinks they’re driven by emotion. Sometimes, Arthur knew, the best chance was to stand and wait. It didn’t make it easier.

After the relief of bringing Morgana home safe and sound, Arthur finds it far harder than usual to stand and wait as his father dismisses the very idea of sending a rescue party for Guinevere. If he had just pressed on the hunt for the bandits once Morgana was safe – but there was too much unknown, the bandits might have decided it was easier to cut their losses immediately, and he doesn’t want to imagine what it would’ve taken to try to get Morgana to stay behind. He had made the sensible choice and listened to his father praise him for that. He’s not Morgana, who can risk arguing with his father.

Arthur returns to the court after helping Morgana leave, because he has his role to play. Not that it’s hard to make his father believe that Arthur is fully in line with his orders. The king doubtless didn’t think that there’s any real need to worry about Arthur going off to bring back a servant girl his father has already dismissed as dead. (She’d not dead. But even if she was, Arthur would still go to bring home.)

A part of Arthur that has clearly been corrupted by unsuitable company suggests that you’d think Uther would know better considering the risky quests has undertaken for a far more annoying servant. Merlin, Galahad, and Morgana clearly knew him better than that, which really shouldn’t please him. Arthur should obey his father. Arthur has a duty to make sure everyone follows the king’s orders. When he catches Sir Leon’s eyes and he can see the sudden relief on the knight’s face he should make a note to pull him aside to remind him of the importance of the king’s word, not feel better. Yet he does.

“Hengist took a large risk,” Uther says, resting his arm on the back of his throne.

“This isn’t the first time he’s crossed our boarders, but it’s never been so dramatic,” Arthur agrees.

“It seems that King Bayard hasn’t used peace to take care of the bandits roaming his kingdom.”

The king’s words are true, and they don’t make Arthur think better of Bayard. He took many losses during the war, yes, but so had Camelot and Arthur’s knights haven’t let bandits set up anything like the type of stronghold Hengist has made for himself on their land. Bayard may have purposefully avoided the bandits to use them as a type of border guard, but if so he’s sure to find that he’s set up a larger problem for himself. If it weren’t for the innocents who’ve been hurt, Arthur would almost say that Bayard would deserve it. But it won’t be the king who suffers.

“I believe King Bayard’s hand may lie behind this attempt on Lady Morgana,” Uther announces, completely throwing off Arthur’s line of thought. It’s… something of a jump.

“I don’t take him for that sort of man, sire,” Arthur says diplomatically, hoping that he kept hold of his expression.

Uther shakes his head. “You are far too softhearted, Arthur.” If Merlin was standing across from him, he’d probably make some sort of ridiculous expression at that. Arthur just inclines his head, hoping that he won’t have to wait much longer to be dismissed.

When Arthur’s finally free, he finds Morgana already waiting in his chambers. He’d far rather her anger than the danger of tears, but Morgana just looks tired. “Bring her home, Arthur,” is all she says, vanishing again before Arthur has time to worry about whether he should try to be comforting.

It’s lucky that Merlin has gone to collect a few… medicinal herbs or what have you from his rooms so Arthur escapes his commentary on how far Arthur will go. Galahad keeps his mouth shut, which Arthur thinks more people should look into. Unlike some (Merlin) (it was usually Merlin), Galahad hasn’t said a ward about whatever feelings he imagines Arthur might have for Guinevere. It’s not surprising that Merlin wants to believe in some unlikely romance, what with his pining for Morgana, but that’s even more reason that Arthur shouldn’t encourage him.

Arthur does his best to focus only on the task in front of them, but it’s hard to put his thoughts of Guinevere to the side when his mind is full of what they might find at the end of their journey. He can’t – refuses – to imagine the worst, but that leaves his mind open to other memories. The light on Guinevere’s hair as she stood beside the window. Her hands moving in lively conversation over the likely winner of the next bout, until she realized how freely she’d been speaking. Her competence, and the steadiness of her heart. That she takes part in completely ridiculous schemes (he knows that Merlin wasn’t working alone when it came to dealing with ‘Cook Zeke’) and stands up for what’s right for all that she has a normal (unlike some people) (Merlin) understanding that you shouldn’t argue with royalty. That she’ll disagree with him even so…

It's around then that Merlin falls off his horse, which is almost useful of Merlin as it provides a distraction from Arthur’s thoughts, except that it brings them to a stop.

“We should rest a moment, sire,” Galahad says, coming to a more dignified stop. “We won’t be as much help if we arrive exhausted.”

Arthur looks at him. Galahad still looks barely old enough to be a squire, but he’s grown since they first met. He’s taller and gotten a better haircut (it couldn’t have been worse), but it’s not just that. Arthur sees him almost every day, and yet it can still be a shock to take in how easily he sits on his horse and speaks from experience Arthur knows he has. He’s no less intense or earnest, and Arthur realizes that he’s glad of that.

“Get some food, squire.” Arthur dismounts, ignoring both Galahad’s delight at his response (just because Arthur’s glad he’s grown more into himself without losing who he is doesn’t mean he cares to have it pointed directly at him) and Merlin’s whining about ‘oh so you’ll list to him’, or whatever he’s saying into the dirt. “Merlin’s busy being useless.”

“Of course, sire.”

The last time Gwen saw Lancelot he’d been helping rebuild Ealdor. She can be forgiven for her surprise at seeing him in Hengist’s fortress, just as he can be forgiven for his surprise at seeing her. They’re both a long way from Ealdor. And Camelot. Further from Camelot, really, so she’s probably more of a surprise even without the change in names.

Lancelot looks out of place, here. Gwen almost laughs, because she’d thought the same thing when she’d seen him in Ealdor. It had been silly, and she’d know it was silly at the moment. After all, Lancelot comes from a village himself, however far away and different it might have been to the land that had somehow managed to produce Merlin. Lancelot hadn’t looked out of place in Camelot, but Camelot was different. And, anyway, when Gwen had first seen Lancelot in Camelot, she hadn’t known him any deeper than his face (it’s definitely a good face, as those go, but that’s not the point).

Gwen probably shouldn’t claim to know him that well now either. They haven’t really spent that much time together, if you put all the days together. They had just been… very eventful days. When Gwen had first met Lancelot – she had seen him in terms of Merlin’s friend, back when she hoped her friendship with Merlin might grow in a different direction. She liked him. She had listened to him and thought that he’d listened to her. But it wasn’t until Lancelot had come to her on his last day in Camelot, ready to go and fight the griffin because that was who he was no matter where he was from, that Gwen felt she’d seen him all over again. And then he’d been gone.

Months later, Gwen had followed Merlin to Ealdor. She hadn’t had to give it a second thought, because Morgana had been waiting with Gwen’s cloak in her room before Gwen had to speak. Morgana had understood. Gwen had gone because Merlin was her friend. Gwen had almost been surprised that it had been as simple as that. Most of her other friends came from Camelot, so she hadn’t ever followed a friend so far before. Arthur had followed – he had been happy to have been given an excuse to follow what he wanted and help – but Lancelot had already been there.

Gwen would swear – though she hadn’t told anyone, even Morgana – that she saw Arthur blush when Hunith said that Lancelot had given them a good picture of the prince. It was a picture Gwen had seen Arthur working to live up to. It was a picture that Gwen already believed was true. And part of that picture had involved demonstrating what a sword fight could look like – no one had tried to poke a hole in their words when they had an excuse to watch real knights against each other – and no one had complaints about what they’d seen.

Gwen has never felt a true passion for the sword. She wasn’t Morgana, who held onto it even though there were so few chances to even draw one. She wasn’t Elyan, who had taken so naturally to the blade that Leon had been happy to give him ‘lessons’, of which not all had been part of the game where two knights fought to save the princess – just most of them. Gwen had taken the lessons too, but she was happy to play the princess. She had enjoyed watching, as she enjoyed watching the tournaments the king hosted.

None of the villagers but Merlin had seen a tourney, but after having a chance to see Arthur and Lancelot fence, Merlin wasn’t wrong to say that most fights in a tournament would be a letdown in comparison to their display. Gwen had seen the look in the eyes of the people watching them, as they had been convinced that there was a chance of safety because Arthur and Lancelot had seemed so impossible to defeat. Gwen knew that it wasn’t a true comparison to what they were facing, and even she had felt a burst of hope rather than just determination.

They had won, in the end. There had been plenty of wounds to tend, even beyond the arrow Merlin had taken (not that there seemed to be any weapon that would make Merlin take Arthur’s worries more seriously), but the village had been safe. The promise of the fight hadn’t been a lie.

Lancelot couldn’t return to Camelot. He hadn’t asked. He had simply asked if he had Arthur’s leave to try to hunt down the brigands who had run from the fight to stop them from being able to return – in the company of a few young men who might be of use. Arthur had granted his princely benediction, and everyone had gone off pleased to have gotten a chance to see such ceremony with their own eyes.

Gwen thinks she was the only one to see the true parting. Lancelot had helped them bring Merlin to the border before he was to return to the village. Merlin had been asleep with Galahad watching over him to check that he wasn’t hit by any sudden fever. Gwen hadn’t been able to sleep just yet, so had thought she might prepare some food for the next morning. Arthur had been on watch too, but for bandits rather than fever, and Lancelot had been beside him.

The moon had been high, and Gwen had been able to see them easily even as she remained hidden to them. It had been an almost perfect tableau of a king and his knight, and Gwen had slipped away before they had seen her.

Now, here in a bandit’s den, Lancelot doesn’t look at his best, not that Gwen’s at her best either. Hopefully. Her dress is nice, but she hopes that’s not enough to make up for the rest.

“Gwen? Is it truly you?” He stares at her, like a man trying to focus when first woken. “I heard Lady Morgana…”

“Hengist thinks that he has Lady Morgana and is waiting for her ransom. When that isn’t paid, he’ll realize who he truly has.” Gwen knows Morgana will do everything she can to help her. She knows the king will order nothing done. She just needs to believe that Morgana survived.

“I will get you out before that happens,” Lancelot says, with the same certainty that she remembers.

“What are you doing here?” She hopes the question hides her doubts. “You aren’t Hengist’s man.” She is certain of that, no matter what company he’s in.

Lancelot shakes his head. “We heard rumors of Hengist causing trouble, so I thought I could join his men to gain a better grasp of the threat he poses.” His smile grows rueful. “I’m afraid it would have been better if someone else had gone. I’m sure he suspects I have not been honest with him.”

“We?” She asks, because she has to agree that Lancelot isn’t who she’d pick first to go undercover but there’s no need to say it.

Despite Lancelot’s concerns, his smile widens at the question. “My men, who I hope I will be able to introduce you to, some day. Right now, hopefully, we will be able to find our way out before Hengist discovers that you are not the Lady Morgana.”

“Do you have a plan?” She asks.

If she was forced to speak truthfully, later, Gwen would have to honestly say that she didn’t think Lancelot had a very good plan. There was a lot of trying to sneak by bandits with the follow up being fighting bandits who outnumbered them and knew the layout better – though Lancelot had helped her memorize a map. She suspects that the most successful version would have still likely ended with him dying, which is not an outcome she finds acceptable. Lancelot’s life alone would make her deeply grateful for Arthur’s arrival.

It's easier to think of how Arthur’s actions helped Lancelot than to let herself dwell on what they meant for her (that Arthur came, that Arthur came when there was no chance that the king would’ve agreed to it), because they both know that’s not something they can risk thinking about. A dramatic rescue is one matter, a lifetime built together is another. But she lets herself just try to take in the moments.

Camp that night reminds her of the night the five of them had left Ealdor. Galahad is looking over Merlin’s injuries (his quick action with the chandelier had saved them, but Gwen can understand Arthur’s frustration when Merlin goes on about having been fine when Lancelot had to practically carry him down the tunnel). Arthur is sitting on one side of Lancelot, and Gwen on the other. Lancelot has spent the night speaking of his travels since they’d last parted ways and listened to the stories of Camelot as if, Gwen thought, listening to stories of a home he’d someday return to.

“I must leave, soon,” Lancelot says, quietly.

“And we must get back to Camelot before our absence causes greater trouble,” Arthur says, just as quietly. None of them say that they hadn’t needed to linger for so long in camp. It had been nice of Merlin to add some theatrical groaning at Arthur’s first unenthusiastic suggestion that they break camp immediately. Gwen had managed not to laugh.

“We will meet again,” Lancelot’s certainty makes Gwen feel just as certain in turn, even now. “I need to make some introductions,” he says, in a lighter tone.

When Lancelot leaves, he leaves a space between Gwen and Arthur. Gwen looks back to where Merlin is lying by the campfire. She can’t see by the firelight, but she suspects he’s rolling his eyes. There’s so much Merlin doesn’t – or refuses to – understand. And yet when Gwen pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders, she lets herself move over a touch. Arthur has moved too, so she can lean against his side just a little. He can’t embrace her, but even this warmth feels like it could enough to keep warm. Even if it might be safer to adjust to the cold.

Morgana holds Gwen tightly, as Gwen lets herself cry on her shoulder. She doesn’t want to imagine how hard Gwen had to hold onto her control, well aware that she could die at any moment. Well aware that Uther would never order her rescue.

Morgana can’t imagine anything else.

Arthur had rescued Gwen, knowing that Uther wouldn’t approve. He had gone because it was the right thing to do. He had gone because he’s loyal to his beliefs. He had gone for Morgana, without her needing to ask. Morgana’s more grateful than she can say. She really is. Arthur had succeeded where Morgana’s plan had failed. What matters is that Gwen’s safe.

Morgana sits with her arms around Gwen on the bed and wishes she could have saved Gwen herself.