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i.
Morgana crests the hill, that last hill between her and the lake of Avalon, just in time to see Merlin cast off his boat from the shore, Arthur leaning against his side: bloodied, weak, alive.
Merlin sees Morgana, too. Even at this distance she can see him smile crookedly at her. He taps the side of the small boat with his hand, casting a spell to speed it more quickly across the water, and raises his other hand to wave. In a matter of seconds, the boat crosses the border between this world and the next and enters Avalon, traveling beyond Morgana’s reach.
Her shriek of rage flattens the woods around her for twenty feet in every direction.
ii.
Arthur wakes up alone, shivering, on a smooth slab of white marble. Pillars and archways of stone surround him, a garden of marble and granite in which only he draws breath. He can't see Merlin anywhere. Something tells him that Merlin is immeasurably far away: a universe’s width of distance, perhaps, now separates them in space and time.
Arthur presses his hand to his stomach. No pain. He shifts in his chilly armor, struggling to remove it and examine his wound. When he pulls off the shoulder guards and chainmail and sets them aside, he reveals his bloodied undertunic, torn, stained. When he removes that, he sees nothing but smooth skin, broken only by the faintest suggestion of a scar at the place where Mordred’s blade should have rightfully ended Arthur’s life.
Arthur touches the scar, his hand trembling. It has healed better than any other wound that he has ever taken, despite being the only mortal blow that he has ever received. What sense is there in this? How could what Merlin have said about Avalon be true? For three days Arthur journeyed with Merlin here, not out of hope for himself but for Merlin’s sake. Merlin had been unable to let Arthur die—not without following this last desperate hope, at least. And Arthur, weak, weary, ashamed, had been unable to squander his last few remaining hours with Merlin arguing. He has already caused enough pain in Merlin’s life. Already made him hide his magic for more than ten years.
Is this healing Merlin’s doing? But no—Merlin is not here. And Merlin had said that he had no power to save Arthur from such a lethal blow. Yet Arthur lives.
“You are not alive,” speaks a voice from the stone. “Not truly, at least.”
Arthur, sitting upright on the marble slab, reaches impulsively for his sword. His hand closes on empty air.
“Peace,” says the voice. “You are in no danger here. In fact quite the opposite. Here you can be safe from all dangers, for as long as necessary.”
A figure steps from behind one of the black-and-white mottled pillars. She is a tall woman dressed in pale gray, her hair pulled back, her face near-featureless save for the white points of her eyes. She reminds Arthur of the woman he met at the Isle of the Blessed, the Cailleach, though this clearly is not her; this woman is younger, taller, silver where the Cailleach was gray.
Arthur gets to his feet and stands before her. “Who are you? What is this place?”
“I am a gatekeeper,” she says; “one of many. This is Avalon.”
“Where’s Merlin?”
“Emrys remains at the border between this world and yours.” At the look on Arthur’s face, she adds, “He is quite safe. Though grieved, of course, by your death.”
Arthur looks down at himself. “I’m not dead.”
“Not quite. But for Emrys you may as well be. That is why he grieves.”
Arthur struggles to keep the anger out of his voice and knows that he does not entirely succeed. “What is that supposed to mean? Who’s Emrys?”
“It means nothing that has not been foreseen. You are the once and future king, Arthur Pendragon. And Emrys is Merlin. He has dedicated his life to ensuring the prosperity of your reign, and he has achieved this. But the time for that prosperity is not yet come.”
Arthur feels his stomach twist at the mention of Merlin’s service for him—all those long years of it!—never seeking recognition, never seeking appreciation, seeking only Arthur. “Well, send me back and let’s have it. I’m alive and healed—why am I still here?”
“You are the once and future king,” the gatekeeper says, gently, “not now. The time of your return is still far distant.”
Arthur stares at her. “No. Send me back.”
“I cannot.”
“Merlin—he’s waiting for me! I can’t just stay here for weeks or months or however long this destiny business is going to take—”
The gatekeeper laughs, sadly. “It will take millennia.”
The word is like a slap. Arthur steps towards the gatekeeper—not to intimidate her, but to affirm his resoluteness. “I refuse. You must send me back.”
He expects her to say that this is not possible—that it is not his destiny, it is not foretold, and therefore it cannot happen. He is prepared to fight back against that with all his might. But the gatekeeper does not say that. She looks at Arthur, the silver-white points of her eyes like stars on a clear night. “Then you have a choice to make, Arthur Pendragon.”
If one of the choices is returning to Merlin and Camelot, then there's no decision to be made. “Tell me.”
“You can wait the long wait and sleep here in Avalon until the time of your appointed return as the once and future king of whom the prophecies have foretold. This is what is expected of you. Or you can return to your world now, to Emrys and Camelot and all that you love, healed in body and spirit, just as you stand here before me. But you will be forced to pay a price.”
Arthur’s hand closes, empty, over the space where his sword hilt should be. “What price?”
“Your kingship,” says the gatekeeper. “You can return now, this instant, so long as you abdicate your rule of Camelot and your status as the once and future king. In so doing, you may never rule over anyone ever again. You may have time to think on your answer.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Oh?” The whites of the gatekeeper’s eyes move. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Arthur tells her. I was right, he thinks; there's really no choice to make, after all.
Arthur wakes up in warm sunlight, the grass beneath him soft and thick. Merlin is bent over him, weeping. Arthur reaches up and grasps Merlin’s hand. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t cry.”
Merlin ceases crying at once, shocked into open-mouthed silence. Arthur takes this to be as good a time as any to sit up and kiss him.
Merlin kisses Arthur back, just for a moment, but then he pulls away and stares at him. “How are you here? Is this some trick?” He touches Arthur’s face before pulling away again, as if he thinks that his hands will shatter Arthur.
“It’s me,” Arthur says, “and it’s not a trick, or I don’t think it is. Will you help me up?”
Merlin does so, still touching Arthur haltingly. His hesitance is so strange and sad that Arthur almost laughs, but he stops himself. When Arthur is on his feet, Merlin takes a step away. The added space between them seems to steady him, but it makes Arthur lean a little, towards Merlin. He reaches instinctively for his sword hilt for balance and finds it.
“You were dead,” Merlin whispers. “Your heart stopped.”
“Did it?” Arthur looks down at himself. He is wearing his bloodied and beaten armor, and it feels impossibly heavy, heavier than it ever has. The armor of a king. He can feel his heart beating very hard beneath it. “Will you help me take this off?” He starts fumbling with the buckles of his shoulder guards.
Merlin swallows, watching him. After a moment he steps forward and bats Arthur’s hands aside. “Let me,” he says, not looking at Arthur’s eyes. Arthur does, though he remembers that he is no longer king, and Merlin was never just his servant. Merlin doesn’t have to do this for Arthur anymore.
One last time, Arthur tells himself. I’ll give myself that much.
Merlin removes Arthur’s belt, sword, and shoulder guards, and then, his hands unsure of themselves, moving in starts and stops, he lifts the chainmail from Arthur’s shoulders. This moment always makes Arthur feel vulnerable. He spends so much of his time armored; he often used to wonder if he spent more time in his chainmail than not. Its weight is a comfort, a relief, yet so is the unburdening of it. And it has always been Merlin’s hands lifting that weight from Arthur’s shoulders.
Merlin sets the armor aside and looks at Arthur in his undertunic stained dark brown with old blood, lifeblood, a blood that should have taken Arthur’s life with it but did not. Because I made a choice, Arthur wants to say—I made a choice, you see: the blood or you, the crown or you, the kingdom or you.
Once that would have been an easy choice, because Arthur would have chosen Camelot over everything and everyone else. Later it would have been difficult. Now it was easy, once again—but this time because of Merlin. For Merlin.
“Will this wash out at all, do you think?” Arthur asks as he strips out of his undertunic. When he lifts the shirt over his head, Merlin gasps and starts forward, holding out his hands—then he stops and stares at Arthur’s abdomen, which is uninjured, not even bruised, hardly even bearing a scar. Merlin’s throat works. He does not speak.
Arthur looks at the ruined shirt. There is little hope for it. “No, I suppose it won’t.” He sets it aside and says quietly, “Merlin?”
Merlin is crying again, silently, tears running down his face. “I don’t understand.”
Arthur approaches him—cautiously, as he would approach a young foal, unused to people—and holds out his hands. Merlin does not react, but nor does he pull away. After a moment Arthur takes Merlin’s hands in his own. “It’s me. It’s not a trick. I’m real, and I’m here. I was healed in Avalon. They gave me a choice.”
Merlin shakes his head. He touches Arthur’s stomach with one hand at the place where Mordred’s sword pierced him. “Who? What choice?”
“The gatekeeper. She told me little more about herself than that. But she said—” Arthur pauses, wondering how to explain it. “She said I could wait in Avalon until my time as the once and future king came again, and then I would be sent back. She said it would be a long time. A very long time.”
Merlin nods, his face tear-stained. “I would have waited,” he says. “I would.”
Arthur grips Merlin’s hands unconsciously. Of course you would, he thinks; that’s why I couldn’t let you. “She also said I could return now, fully healed, if I paid a price.”
Merlin frowns, searching Arthur’s face. He looks frantic, semi-desperate. “What price?”
Arthur takes a breath. He realizes, suddenly, that Merlin may not understand. He may even be angry. He has devoted his life, after all, to ensuring the destiny of the once and future king. “I was allowed to return immediately if I abdicated the throne of Camelot, now and forever.”
Merlin drops Arthur’s hands. “You—you....” His mouth opens and closes, but he says nothing else. He is apparently incapable of it.
“Yes,” Arthur says, “I did, and I would do it again, and I’m not sorry for it. I chose you, Merlin. I came back for you.” He turns and looks at their little boat, beached on the rocky island shore. “Now come on. Do you think we can leave this place by the same way we came to it?”
Merlin silently casts off their boat from the rocks, tapping the gunwale once with his hand. The boat slips into the water and begins, serenely, to steer itself towards the opposite shore. Arthur studies the boat for a moment, transfixed by the simple, unconscious magic, then looks at Merlin. Merlin sits huddled on the other side of the boat, his arms around his knees as he looks into the water and does not speak. Arthur tries to think of something to say to him and finds nothing. Let Merlin have his space for now. It is a lot to adjust to, all at once.
The boat approaches the opposite bank. Arthur, frowning, glances up at the sky. Surely the sun had been setting when they left the little island? Now it seems to be rising. He glances at Merlin, thinks of asking him, then thinks better of it. No doubt it is some magic of Avalon manifesting itself. Even if Merlin understands it, Arthur doubts that any explanation will make much sense to him.
I have magic. So Merlin had told Arthur three days ago, through tears. Yet Merlin wields magic unlike any other sorcerer that Arthur has ever encountered. Granted, Arthur’s experience with magic is minimal, and Merlin has spent a decade hiding his magic from Arthur; perhaps that explains the quiet, unobtrusive nature of Merlin’s spellcasting.
But as Merlin taps the boat once more and it comes to rest gently against the lakeshore, Arthur thinks that's not quite right. In the same way that Merlin’s bravery, his love, his compassion, his loyalty, are all unobtrusive yet vibrant as a pulse, and as essential to his core nature, so is his magic. Merlin can cast a spell as easily as he draws breath, as unconsciously as he keeps his heart beating.
You’ve lied to me all this time. But what is worse: the lie of omission, done to preserve Merlin’s safety and Arthur’s kingship, or Arthur’s failure to ever see this essential part of Merlin, this quality that encompasses so much of who he is? I have failed all those closest to me, Arthur thinks. Merlin, Gwen, even Morgana. I was blinded by my own assumptions, my own prejudices, to their detriment and pain.
He will never let that happen again. If there is anything that he can do to make his past wrongs right, then he will do it. If such a thing is even possible.
Merlin climbs out of the boat, unsteadily. Arthur follows. On the rocky beach, Arthur stretches up towards the warm sun, feeling his aching muscles made stiff by the last three painful days loosen themselves and relax. He lets out a relieved exhale, then turns when Merlin coughs awkwardly behind him.
“Sire....”
“I’m not king anymore.” Certainly not yours.
Merlin swallows. “Arthur.” He says it as if forcing the name from his mouth hurts. “You’ve forgotten your armor.”
“Leave it.”
Merlin says nothing. He stands by the boat, his hands empty, apparently unwilling to leave behind the chainmail that he has spent years polishing and maintaining, or else not believing that Arthur truly means to abandon it.
“It was a king’s armor. If I need a new set, I’ll have something made.” Arthur pauses for a moment. “I’ll have to pay for that now, I expect, and not with the castle treasury. I’m actually not quite sure how that works out. Well, I’ll figure it out later.” He tries to keep his tone light, but he can see Merlin’s expression shift between disbelief and something almost like anguish. Arthur has always thought that Merlin’s expressions were easy to read, transparent; apparently they aren’t, since Merlin kept such an immense secret for all these years. It must have been unimaginably difficult.
“Leave it, Merlin,” Arthur says, his voice soft. And he adds: “Please.”
It's not something that a king would say. Not to his servant, though Arthur can remember having said it to Merlin more than a few times. But Merlin obviously sees the meaning that Arthur tries to imbue the word with now. Merlin’s mouth twists, but he nods. “Will you take your sword, at least?”
Arthur almost says no; then, at Merlin’s expression, changes his mind. “Hand it here,” he says, then regrets it—he falls back into giving orders too easily. “Never mind, I’ve got it, thank you,” he adds, and moves past Merlin to retrieve Excalibur from the boat and buckle it awkwardly to his side. Merlin watches Arthur the whole time, not moving. He is close enough for Arthur to touch, were Arthur to reach out his hand. He doesn’t.
When Arthur makes to step away, Merlin steps towards him, effectively stopping him. He is looking at Arthur helplessly, as if he might cry again. Arthur, who has not cried since his father died—and even then only alone, in solitude, as he sat the night’s vigil over Uther’s corpse—marvels at this even as he is sorry for being the cause of it.
“You can’t do this.” Merlin reaches out an unsteady hand and touches Arthur’s forearm. “You should return to Avalon. Maybe they’ll still let you back. I’ll wait. However long it takes, if that’s what you’re worried about....”
“It’s not.” Arthur takes Merlin’s hand gently from his arm. “My choice is already done.” He wants to kiss Merlin again—he looks so heartbroken, so full of grief—yet he is aware enough to know that doing so wouldn’t be for the best. He squeezes Merlin’s hand instead. “Come on. It’s a long way back to Camelot. We’d best get started. Someone has to tell them I'm not their king anymore.”
Merlin closes his eyes. After a long moment, he nods, and the two of them set off on their journey back to Camelot.
They find Morgana just over the first ridge, lying unconscious. The nearby trees have all fallen away from her like the spokes of a wheel, radiating outwards with Morgana collapsed at their center. Merlin looks at her, frowning, and says nothing. One of his hands inches towards his hip, as if he is reaching for a sword.
“She was following us,” Arthur says, almost a question.
“Yes. I felt her coming. If she had reached us....” Merlin trails off. “I don’t like to think about what could have happened.”
“You would have handled it.” Arthur picks his way over the fallen trees and flattened underbrush towards Morgana. Merlin does not follow him. Arthur crouches by Morgana’s side, hesitates, and then turns her over. She is alive, but otherwise nonresponsive. Arthur sighs and looks at her for a moment. You’re my sister, he thinks; you’re my sister, you always were, and you had magic, too. Just like Merlin, and I never knew it. Arthur sits her upright, rather clumsily, and lifts her over his shoulders. Her dark hair covers her face.
“What are you doing?”
“We can’t leave her here.”
Merlin’s nostrils flare. “I don’t see why not.”
“She’d just follow us.” Arthur adjusts Morgana, debates whether he has the strength to carry her, and then decides that he does. Whatever healing had been done to him in Avalon has been effective. “And if she didn’t, she would cause trouble somewhere else.”
“You feel responsible for her.”
Arthur smiles with some embarrassment. “She’s my sister.”
“No.” Merlin’s voice is still dangerously toneless. “She’s not.”
“I understand why you don’t support this. Merlin—I get it. And I’m not ordering you to be okay with it. But I have to do this.”
Merlin watches Arthur unhappily. “She still wants to see you dead.”
“Maybe.” Arthur turns and begins walking away from the lake and the flattened woods. “But maybe not, once she learns I’m no longer king.” It feels good to say that, even though Arthur knows that it hurts Merlin to hear it.
After a pause, Merlin follows Arthur and falls into step beside him. “If she tries anything, I’m not going to hold back. Not this time.”
Merlin still does not understand that it is over. Not yet. “I wouldn’t expect you to,” Arthur says. He glances at Merlin. “Have you been? Holding back, much?”
Merlin looks grim, but a smile ghosts over his face. “You have no idea.”
iii.
Morgana wakes up cold, in the dark. The first thing she hears is the sound of frogs in the distance, chorusing together. The second thing she hears is something moving nearby, rustling the underbrush. She bolts upright, one of her hands outstretched to perform a spell if necessary.
“Finally,” that someone says. “You’ve been out all day.”
Her eyes adjust to the dim light, and she sees the speaker. Merlin sits hunched by a small pile of firewood in the twilit gloom, though he is not trying to light a fire. He seems to be waiting for something. Rage flares like a struck match in Morgana. She tries to get to her feet, summoning words of force to her fingertips. She has only managed to get her knees beneath herself when she is immobilized so completely that she cannot even breathe.
Merlin watches her, his eyes cold. “Don’t mistake your lack of physical bonds for freedom. And don’t think you can overpower me. I’ve had to work in secret for a long time, but I don’t anymore. If you test me, I’ll show you how right you were to fear me all this time.”
His tone is clipped, matter-of-fact. I don’t fear you, Morgana wants to say, but she can’t, and she does. Her lungs burn for lack of air. Merlin watches her impassively. Morgana wonders if he means to suffocate her, and she struggles to silently reach for a spell to counter him, but it is too hard to think. The edges of her vision fade to black. Then Merlin releases her. She clutches at her neck, gasping in breath, dizzy. Merlin almost smiles.
“You can’t watch me forever,” Morgana manages at last. “You’ll need to sleep, or you’ll turn your back for a moment. Then we’ll see whether Emrys is as powerful as the rumors say, or whether they’re just words.”
Merlin does smile now, and glances at the fire pit. It ignites at his glance. “I wouldn’t wager my life on that. But it’s your bet.”
Morgana’s hand clenches. She turns her back on him, still light-headed, but slowly regaining her composure. The woods are unfamiliar, but that means little. She had traveled far to pursue Arthur to Avalon.
Arthur. The last Morgana saw of him, he was leaning against Merlin in a boat sailing towards Avalon. Yet he is not here now. She glances at Merlin.
As if he can read her mind, Merlin says, “Arthur's collecting wood for the fire. He’ll be back soon. I expect he’ll want to talk to you, though I can’t imagine you have anything worth saying.”
“He’s alive?”
“Alive and well.” Merlin’s expression is inscrutable, but Morgana hears a tremor in his voice. “Your rabid dog didn’t manage to kill him.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“His name, then. How is Mordred?”
Morgana turns away. “As if that is any of your business.”
A considering silence. “He’s alive then, too,” Merlin says after a quiet moment. “It’s not like Arthur to not strike a killing blow when his back is against the wall.”
“He tried,” Morgana spits. “He just wasn’t good enough.”
“Maybe.” Merlin looks into the fire. To himself he says, “Again, he surprises me.”
“With his incompetence?”
“His mercy.”
Morgana laughs. “That’s not a trait I’d ever ascribe to him.”
“The fact that you’re here and not dead at the bottom of that lake proves he’s more merciful than you know.” Merlin’s voice is still even, not betraying anything. “Though I don’t know why you should be so surprised. He learned it from you, after all. I’d say you should be proud, but you’ve long since forgotten any of the good that might ever have been in you. But Arthur hasn’t. He’s been thinking about you a lot, I think. About your time in Camelot, and the things you used to say to Uther.”
Morgana bites down on her fury. It takes far more effort than it should have. She does not know whether she is more furious with Arthur, with Uther, or with Merlin himself, but she does know that, right now, she hates them all. “Perhaps he should have listened to me sooner.”
“Maybe.” Merlin looks at Morgana, matching her gaze with his own. He is furious too, she realizes—he conceals it better than she ever could, but she recognizes that light in his eyes, the cold star-forge burning of it. He means what he says, every word, and hates her at least as much as she does him. “In any case, I’ve learned different lessons in this past year. No matter what Arthur wants or what he tells me to do—if I think you’re a threat to him, I’ll kill you. And this time there will be no Morgause or Aithusa to save you.”
She believes his threat: every word. It almost makes her want to smile, knowing that would stoke his anger further, make it burn and singe inside of him. “You have changed, Merlin. I like this side of you much better than the obedient servant you pretend to be.”
“I’ve never pretended.”
“Liar. Come on, Merlin! Surely to me you can admit as much. Who else would understand you better? You’ve spent ten years in Camelot hiding who you are, hiding the most essential aspect of your very self—and for seven of those years while Uther was king! I can’t imagine how you did it, and you may take that as a compliment, if you like. Love hardly seems a sufficient justification. In fact I don’t know whether any love exists that could justify such a denial of your truest self. And then Arthur became king, and he kept all of Uther’s laws in place and didn’t change a thing. How that must have stung you!” Morgana does smile, now; she can feel herself regaining her footing in this conversation with every word that she speaks. Merlin refuses to look at her, refuses to shift his gaze from the fire, but numb anger pours from him like water. “Doesn’t it make you angry? Don’t you feel wronged?”
Merlin is preternaturally still, so motionless that Morgana briefly wonders whether he has cast some sort of illusion spell to conceal himself. Then he shifts, and pokes at the fire with a stick. “You don’t know anything about love, Morgana. I don’t believe you’ve ever truly felt it.”
Morgana laughs at him. For all that he has power, for all that he holds her captive here, Merlin is still as naïve as he always has been. Some things never change. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night. Though if love really is your reason, it’s a poor one. It will never be returned in kind. Arthur would never make such a sacrifice for you.”
Now, at last, Merlin looks anguished. “I never wanted him to,” he says, not looking at her; and he says no more.
Arthur lumbers back into camp a quarter of an hour later, bearing a heavy armful of dead wood. He dumps it next to the fire and sits beside Merlin, holding his hands to the warmth. Morgana notes immediately that he is not wearing his armor, only his undertunic and trousers, and he does not move as one grievously injured. Alive and well, Merlin had said; so Arthur was somehow healed in Avalon after all. All Morgana’s planning, all her work, has come to nothing.
“You’re awake,” Arthur says to Morgana unnecessarily.
“Indeed.”
Arthur glances between her and Merlin, who is still sitting close-lipped and stiff as he looks into the fire. Arthur and Merlin are seated awfully close, but neither leans in towards the other; Merlin still looks upset, and Arthur, for once, seems unwilling to push the matter.
Interesting, indeed.
“I’m fine, by the way,” Arthur says, “in case you were curious.”
“So I see.” Morgana resists the urge to ask what happened—what magic of Avalon saved his life. She knows little of the place, but what she does know has given her cause to be wary of it. That Merlin sought it out speaks to his desperation. And perhaps his courage, which even Morgana can admit has never been lacking.
Arthur, unlike Merlin, is watching Morgana closely. She pretends to ignore him. She is cold, as night has fallen now in full, but she makes no move to draw closer to the fire. Let Arthur watch her, judge her. She will be free of him soon enough.
“Would you give us some privacy for a moment, Merlin?” Arthur asks.
Merlin’s face becomes suddenly stony. “No. She’ll attack you.”
“Maybe,” Arthur says. Still watching Morgana. “You don’t have to go far. Barely out of earshot, and you can still watch us. She won’t try anything while you’re here.”
Morgana hates that he is right.
“Please, Merlin,” Arthur says.
He could easily order Merlin away, yet he doesn’t. But Merlin would be a fool to leave earshot. As soon as he does, Morgana will tell Arthur about his magic, and then they will see how long Arthur’s affection for Merlin lasts.
One of Arthur’s hands reaches for Merlin’s and clasps it. After a moment, Merlin rises. “Just over there.” He indicates the edge of the circle of light made by the fire. “That’s as far as I go.”
“Thank you,” Arthur says.
Merlin retreats. At the edge of the firelight, barely out of earshot, he crosses his arms and watches them.
“He has magic,” Morgana tells Arthur. Gloating in it. If she cannot kill Arthur, at least she can have this. At least she can kill his trust in Merlin. “Your loyal servant is a sorcerer. He has been this whole time.”
She expects Arthur to deny it, to demand proof, to turn to Merlin in horror and betrayal. He does none of those things. Instead, he smiles. “Yes, I know. He told me three days ago.”
Morgana stares at him. Several things suddenly make sense. “What?”
“I was dying, you’ll remember. Maybe Merlin thought that was why he should tell me. He said he was the one who defeated your army. I always thought there was something oddly familiar about that old sorcerer...something I should have recognized. I didn’t, of course. Selfish pride.”
Morgana cannot speak, though she tries. “He—you....”
“How did you find out, I wonder?” Arthur does not seem to be really asking Morgana. More thinking out loud.
“Mordred.” The name is all that Morgana can manage to say. She wants to get to her feet and turn all her power, all her might against Arthur. But Merlin is watching from across the darkness, his face a pale oval in the firelight, impassive.
“So Mordred knew. That makes sense, I suppose. Who else has known, has guessed? And none of them told me. They were protecting him. From my father, and from me.” Arthur falls silent. He looks unspeakably troubled. All this concern for Merlin’s wellbeing, even after realizing that Merlin has lied to him for a decade. All that, and yet—
“You don’t hate him,” Morgana says. “You feel sorry for what you’ve done to him all this time.” As you should, she wants to say, but she does not. She has no desire to defend Merlin, but for some reason the urge still lingers. “And in three days you've accepted magic for him. Accepted a sorcerer...!” Don’t say it, she tells herself: don’t say it, don’t give in, don’t show that weakness; but she can’t stop herself. “All that for him, but not for me.”
“Well.” Arthur puts some more wood onto the fire and breathes onto the coals, which flare red. “You did try to kill me. Several times, in fact.”
Morgana laughs, short and abrupt. “I suppose that does muddy things a bit.”
“A bit.”
“Oh, Arthur.” She cannot decide whether she is amused or outraged. Perhaps both. “Of course this is what it took for you to see sense. Not the hundreds of people Uther had hanged, or driven from Camelot, or torn apart by their countrymen in the name of the king. No—it was your servant. Even now you’re selfish.”
“I am,” Arthur agrees. “Horribly selfish. You should explain that to Merlin, so he can stop being so upset about what I’ve done. He thinks it’s his fault. Really, it’s mine.”
“I’ll be sure to let him know,” Morgana says icily. “And what, precisely, have you done?”
A smile. Arthur glances to Merlin, once. “I’ve given up the throne of Camelot.”
Morgana is so frozen with shock that she wonders whether Merlin has immobilized her again. Surely—surely not. She wets her lips. “You never were very funny, Arthur. Leave the jokes for the rest of us.”
“It’s no joke. I gave up my kingship in Avalon in return for healing. Merlin would’ve had me wait there, and be reborn in a thousand years to be king again.” Arthur shrugs. “I didn’t see the appeal.”
He cracks Morgana a genuine, warm smile, as if they are still two young fools in Camelot more than a decade ago, when he used to teach her how to use a sword and she would tease him about the girls Uther made him give attention to. As if they are somehow, even now, still brother and sister. As if they ever can be again.
“Imagine what Father would say about that, huh?” Arthur says. “I suppose I’d be the disappointment now. I think he always favored you, anyway.”
“He did not.” Morgana wishes that he would stop talking about Uther. Her head is starting to pound. “You’ll never know what it was like to be hated by him.”
“Maybe not. Still—I gave up the throne for my servant, who just so happens to be the most powerful sorcerer in all of Albion. And I would do it again. I think Father would take comfort in the fact that you, at least, are still hungry for the power to rule above all else. That’s what he cared about the most, after all.”
Movement, sound. Merlin is pacing a little at the perimeter of their camp, stamping his feet to warm himself. He could cast a spell to do that, but he doesn’t.
“Come over by the fire, Merlin,” Arthur says, and Merlin does. There is silence among the three of them after that.
They approach Camelot from the north on the fifth day of their journey. It has been slow going without any horses, but not as torturous as Morgana feared. Arthur and Merlin mostly pay her no attention, especially Merlin, and with her presence nearby they have had little space to talk between themselves, so they don’t. They walk, they make camp at night, they sleep; they walk again the next day. Morgana stays alert for any chance to overpower or evade Merlin, but she knows that the probability of this is almost zero. She tried to stay awake the first few nights so that she might slip away while Merlin slept, but he sat up by the fire for hours, and finally, exhausted from walking all that day, Morgana had slept. When she awoke Merlin was already awake, packing his things and trying to do the same for Arthur, who waved him away.
At least watching the two of them attempt to navigate their new circumstances is mildly enjoyable. Merlin seems at pains to forget that anything has changed; he tries to take care of Arthur as if he is still his servant. Arthur, on the other hand, shuts this down every time with a gentle but firm word. Merlin grows increasingly upset as the days pass, though he hides it well. Watching him for signs of discomfort becomes Morgana’s favorite pastime, as there is little else to do, and watching Arthur pretend as if he knows how to be just like anyone else, not the king of Camelot, is equally amusing.
Arthur stops as they approach the city’s northern gates. He looks, for the first time in these past few days, uneasy. “We should disguise ourselves.” He looks at Merlin. “Do you know any spells that would work?”
“Yes. I don’t see why we need them, though.”
Arthur hesitates. Without his armor and behaving so uncertainly, he should look strangely small. Yet even now he does not. Uther trained that out of you, Morgana thinks. Uther taught you pride, taught you arrogance. We both learned our lessons well, though neither of us knew it then. We both thought we were better than him, that we grew beyond him, and we didn’t realize how his shadow overtook us both.
I almost wish he were here, she thinks. Just so I could've seen the look on his face when you told him what you’ve done.
How he would hate us both!
“I don’t want to be seen,” Arthur finally admits to Merlin. “And should anyone see Morgana, I doubt they’d let us pass unhindered, even if they mean well. I want only to reach Gwen, and tell her what—tell her what’s happened.”
“Tell her that she’s now the sole ruler of Camelot, you mean,” Morgana says. “I doubt she’ll thank you for it. Do you think she’ll stay here and rule now that you’ve given up your birthright? She’ll abandon you and this place, and Camelot will crumble.” Morgana shakes her head, smiling. “I didn’t even need to kill you to ruin Camelot. Perhaps when Gwen is gone, I’ll take the throne for myself.”
“You would die first,” Merlin says sharply. “And Gwen is better than you think she is, better than you could ever possibly be. Did you ever know that, or was your friendship with her always a lie, too? I don’t doubt it.”
“Don’t.” Arthur sounds tired. “Can we just get this over with, please? Merlin?”
Merlin looks at Arthur for a long moment, then raises his hand. Warmth washes over Morgana from her face to her feet, and when she looks down at herself, her appearance has changed. She looks as nondescript as any citizen of Camelot. Arthur and Merlin, too, look different. Merlin has opted not to use his usual disguise, that of the old warlock whom he pretended was Emrys. He and Arthur look like any two men that you might find in any village in the kingdom.
“Let’s go,” Merlin says. “I’d rather not hold this spell for very long.”
“Not up to it?” Morgana asks lightly.
“It’s not that,” Merlin says. “It itches.”
When they approach the city gates, the guards ask their business. Arthur tells a smooth, unobtrusive lie, and the three of them pass unhindered into the city.
“Should that be as easy as it was?” Arthur asks Merlin offhandedly as they walk through the familiar streets. Arthur walks alongside Morgana, and Merlin follows them a half step behind.
“It’s all right,” Merlin says. “Walls and borders are fragile fabrications at best. How are we going to get into the castle?”
“Through the front door. We’ll have to announce ourselves eventually.” Even through his disguise, Arthur looks somewhat ill.
Merlin notices. “It’ll be all right, sire.” He hesitates. “Arthur.”
Arthur gives him a weak smile. “I always liked it better when you called me that.”
Morgana rolls her eyes and tsks. “Can we get this over with? I eagerly await my impending death sentence. Maybe I’ll at least get a good view of the fall of Camelot from the hangman’s noose.”
“No one’s being hanged,” Arthur says.
“That’s not up to you anymore,” Merlin says. He isn’t looking at Arthur.
When they enter the main courtyard, Arthur suddenly turns away from the castle. “Can you see the knight at the door?”
Merlin peers in that direction. “It’s Leon.”
“Oh.” Arthur swallows. “That’s all right. Well, let’s go. You can drop the spell, Merlin. Please.”
A chill goes up Morgana’s spine, and her arms break out in gooseflesh. Her disguise fades. As she watches, so do Merlin’s and Arthur’s.
Arthur shudders. “Can’t you make that feel any less weird?”
“Afraid not.”
“Pity. You know, a lot of things would’ve been so much easier if I’d known earlier you could do things like that.”
“Trust me.” Merlin sounds equal parts grim and amused. “I’m very aware.”
The courtyard is empty save for the three of them and Leon standing at the castle entrance. The entire city has been eerily silent, as if all of Camelot is holding its breath. Waiting for its king to return. Morgana hides a smile.
They approach Leon, Arthur leading the way. When Leon sees them, he takes a step backwards. His hand falls to his sword. “Arthur!”
“Hello, Leon,” Arthur says. “It’s good to see you.”
Leon looks between the three of them, his brow furrowed. “Are you—how did you...?”
“It’s complicated. We need to see Guinevere, if you will take us to her.”
“Of course, sire.” Leon flicks his gaze towards Morgana, yet he does not inquire about her presence and apparent lack of restraints. Instead he looks at Merlin, just for a moment. Merlin does not meet his gaze. “Come with me.”
They walk quickly through the castle halls. Leon, apparently guessing that they do not wish to be seen by anyone else, takes them through the lesser-used corridors, and they pass no one. “Gwaine will be glad to know you’re both all right,” Leon says to Arthur and Merlin. “When he and Percival returned last week, they were both so worried—”
“Gwaine is alive?” interrupts Morgana.
“Yes.” Leon’s gaze is cold. Strange, to be looked at thus by someone you’ve known for most of your life. Yet that is a feeling Morgana has grown accustomed to, if not comfortable with. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to kill a knight of Camelot.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Morgana,” Arthur warns. She cannot help but smile. That Arthur, crownless, should still try to play peacemaker is rich indeed.
“The queen is in the royal chambers,” Leon says. “Shall we go there, sire?”
Morgana watches Arthur hesitate. He does not want to tell Gwen what has happened in so intimate a place, she thinks; he would rather make her face it someplace where she must put on a brave face and conceal herself. Coward.
“Can you bring her to the council chambers, please?” Arthur asks. “We’ll wait there if they’re empty.”
“They are. I’ll be back right away.” Leon bows and departs quickly. Maybe he senses the change in Arthur, and fears it. Or maybe he is unsettled by the quiet, itching tension between the three of them, the silence crawling like insects.
“What will you say to her?” Morgana asks as they approach and enter the council chambers.
“That’s hardly any of your business,” says Arthur.
Morgana smiles. Merlin, watching her, raises his eyebrows slightly. Don’t speak, his expression says. Morgana gives him her best glare, haughty, disinterested, practiced, and turns away from him. Ostensibly to show that she does not care what he thinks; in truth to hide her anxiety from him, because with every second that draws closer to the reunion with Gwen, Morgana feels more ill at ease.
The last time that she and Gwen met in person, Gwen had been spellbound to Morgana’s will—compelled to show Morgana loyalty, trust, love. So has it been with everyone who has sided with Morgana these past few years, save for Morgause and then Mordred, who had followed Morgana of their own wills. And look what that had gotten them: disfigurement and death, grievous injury. To rely on others is a weakness. If you care for them, then you will fear for them, too—fear to put them in danger, even for your own cause. Better to bind those whom you do not care for, and use their own loyalty and love against them.
The last time that Morgana saw Gwen, they had embraced. Gwen had thrown back the hood of her cloak and smiled, that same smile that she had so often worn when Morgana was Uther’s ward and Gwen her maid, that smile that said, I’m so happy you’re here, I’m so happy to see you. Gwen had thrown her arms around Morgana and kissed her on the cheek, and Morgana had closed her eyes and let herself imagine, just for a moment, that this was no spell: no illusion. That she and Gwen held each other as they had once done, long ago, in a time when Morgana had been happier.
I nearly killed Elyan, Morgana thinks. My god, just as Uther killed Gwen’s father, so did I try to kill her brother.
And for what? A slim chance to seize the crown, to poison Arthur? If only Morgana had known all along that all it would take to get Arthur to give up his kingship was the love of his servant. If only she had known that it would be so easy.
Until this moment, Morgana has felt nothing but disdain for Arthur’s choice, his cowardice. When the door to the council chambers opens, and Gwen, crowned and bejeweled, walks in, Morgana thinks: yet wouldn’t I have made that same choice, once?
Once, a long time ago?
“Please wait outside, Leon,” Gwen says. Leon bows to her, to Arthur, and steps into the hall. The doors to the council chambers close. And, as it was before, at the start of it all, once again it is just the four of them.
Gwen crosses the room to Arthur and takes his hands in hers. “Arthur....” Looking him up and down, seeing the blood stains on his tunic, the sword at his hip, the lack of armor anywhere. “Are you...?”
“Yes.”
Gwen puts her arms around him and hugs him close. “Thank god. What happened?”
“It’s complicated.” Arthur’s unease is palpable. “I’ll tell you as soon as we’re alone.” So he is putting it off as long as he can, then. “First you must deal with Morgana.”
Gwen gives Arthur a funny look at that. First you must deal with her. Yes, Morgana thinks, deal with me, so I can sleep easily for the first time in days and figure my way out of this mess.
Unless Gwen orders her killed on the spot. Morgana isn’t sure what she will do in that case. That might be, as they say, the end of the line.
Gwen looks at Morgana. Her manner is cold, admitting none of the warmth of their last meeting. Of course not; Merlin somehow broke that enchantment weeks ago. It had been risky to manipulate Gwen like that, maybe foolish. Morgana still can’t quite pin down why she did it.
“Why is she here?” Gwen asks Arthur.
“She followed us. We captured her, I suppose.”
Gwen frowns, noting the lack of bonds around Morgana’s wrists.
Arthur swallows and glances at Merlin, who shrugs. “Merlin is keeping her in check,” Arthur says quietly. “He has magic.”
Gwen glances at Merlin, who stands utterly still. Her gaze softens a little. “Yes, I know. Thank you, Merlin.”
Merlin stands blinking. Arthur looks thunderstruck. “How—?”
“Later.” Gwen looks back to Morgana. “We should decide what to do with her first.”
For the first time, Morgana returns Gwen’s gaze. She is unprepared for the visible hatred there, the bitter anger and disgust. From Arthur and Merlin, such emotion is bearable, even funny. From Gwen it is a knife-thrust.
“You should kneel,” Merlin says quietly. “You stand before the queen’s mercy.”
Morgana lifts her chin and says nothing.
A sound of irritation from Merlin. “Fine, then.”
The muscles in Morgana’s legs seize, and her knees buckle. Merlin’s spell works so suddenly that Morgana’s teeth click together when her knees hit the stone floor, and she has to put out her hands to prevent herself from falling onto her stomach. She can feel her face flaming hot, and shame freezes the back of her neck and her spine.
“Merlin.” Gwen, annoyed. “Stop. Get her up.”
“Gwen—”
Footsteps. Morgana, dizzy from the spell, does not realize who has put their arms around her and pulled her to her feet until she is fully upright and the person has stepped away, no longer looking at her.
Gwen. Morgana takes a breath.
“I’m not yet accustomed to being bowed to,” Gwen says to Merlin lightly, “instead of being the one who bows. I don’t require it, or even want it. Especially not from who hates me.” Her gaze flashes to Morgana. It is incredible, really, the depths of disdain that can lurk in those brown eyes. “Take her to the dungeons. We can deal with her later. Merlin, can you ensure she won’t escape?”
“Yes.”
“Please do, then. I’d like to speak to Arthur. And you too, later.”
Merlin looks between Gwen and Arthur without saying anything. His throat works, as if he might speak, but then he doesn’t. He inclines his head—seems to consider bowing, then reconsiders, after what just happened—and gestures to Morgana.
Morgana, her face warm, still embarrassed and furious with Merlin, reluctantly follows him from the room. At least it is better than staying here beneath Gwen’s gaze. The route to the castle dungeons is familiar, and again, blessedly, they pass no one. Morgana hopes fervently that Merlin will just shove her in a cell somewhere and leave without saying anything else. She doesn’t know whether she can control herself if he speaks to her. Not after he made her kneel like that. Merlin might be all too quick to bend the knee, but Morgana never has been.
Merlin leads Morgana past the knights guarding the entrance to the cellblock. The two knights, neither of whom Morgana recognizes, stare in silence as Merlin passes them and Morgana follows.
“Bring food to the prisoner twice a day,” Merlin says to the knights, “and water three times. Don’t speak to her, though I can’t keep her from speaking to you. Do you understand?”
One of the knights nods. “Merlin,” he starts to say, but Merlin ignores him and opens one of the cell doors for Morgana and looks at her, patient.
“You won’t cast a spell to quiet my tongue?” Morgana is unable to leave the bitter comment unspoken. “You had no qualms in making me kneel.”
“It doesn’t matter what you say. You can talk yourself hoarse in here, but no one will let you out.”
“Even if I enchant them, the way I did Gwen?”
Merlin shuts the door behind her, takes the keys from one of the knights, and turns the lock. When the bolt slides home, it makes a hollow metal sound. “You can try, but I wouldn’t. Give me a reason to strike against you, and I’ll take it, Morgana. Regardless of what Arthur or Gwen says.”
“You said it of Mordred,” says Morgana, “but you're really the dog, Merlin. You always have been. Despite what you say, I don’t think you’ll ever disobey the one who holds your leash.”
Merlin flushes. “Things change.”
“Not as much as we may think.” Morgana wraps her hands around the iron bars of the cell, testing them. They are as thick around as her wrists, and she can feel quiet magic humming within them and the stone walls. Wards that Merlin has cast—though when? In preparation for a time when he might be able to lock Morgana away here? They will prevent Morgana from breaking out and escaping. Well, no matter, really. That had been a thin hope. Merlin was gracious enough to give her a cell with a window, at least.
Merlin takes the key to her cell, removes it from the key ring, and pockets it before handing the rest back to the guards. He is about to leave when Morgana calls after him, “You should know by now that no matter what he says, he can’t love you, Merlin.”
Merlin stops. He does not turn to look at her. His shoulders move.
“Arthur only loves what he rules over,” Morgana says. “If he doesn’t rule you anymore, then he will no longer love you. Just look at him and Gwen. How long will they last, now that she is queen and he is no one?”
Gwen never deserved the throne of Camelot. But Arthur never deserved Gwen, either.
“You don’t know him at all.” Merlin’s voice sounds changed.
“Don’t I? We’re kin, after all. And our father’s shadow is longer than we knew. But I’m beginning to see its edges now.”
Now Merlin turns. He looks furious, and he grips the key in his pocket with one hand, his other pressed against his thigh to steady himself. “One day, Morgana, you’ll learn to blame yourself and not Uther for your own failings.” Then he turns, and with three quick strides reaches the staircase to the castle interior and climbs out of sight.
Morgana, because the knights are watching, tries to laugh. Yet her nostrils flare. She surveys her cell, her hands on her hips; then she kicks some of the straw together into a pile and sits on it with her back against the wall, her face upturned to the small window set just below the ceiling. The day’s last rays of sunlight filter, thin and weak, into the dusty room.
iv.
“Arthur.” Gwen folds herself into Arthur’s arms, hugging him close, a little desperately. Arthur hugs her back just as tightly, though he hates himself for it. He can’t resist the comfort that she brings, even though he knows he is only making this more painful for her in the end.
In Avalon, Arthur had only thought of Merlin: Merlin, waiting for Arthur’s inevitable but impossibly distant return. Part of that was because of their journey of the three days before, as Arthur slowly died; part of it was because, in all things, Arthur always thinks of Merlin first.
Once that had not been as much of a problem. Once Arthur had thought that he would be able to care for Gwen fairly, lovingly, properly, despite that. And there is still no one else Arthur would rather see as the queen of Camelot. More than that: there is no one else Arthur would rather see as the sole ruler of Camelot in his place.
Yet making that choice for Gwen without her knowledge was unfair. It always will be unfair. Arthur can do nothing, now, to change that. All he can do is explain himself, and hope that Gwen understands.
If she doesn’t—well, Arthur can hardly fault her for it.
So he hugs her tightly, not wanting to let her go. It might be the last time that he ever gets to hold her.
At last, inevitably, she pulls away. “Gaius told me you were injured—he brought me your seal. Arthur, what happened?”
Arthur hesitates. “Let’s sit.”
Gwen, frowning, does. Arthur sits in the chair beside her at the council table. She covers his hand with her own. “So?”
“We made it to Avalon.” Arthur watches Gwen’s face. She reacts, but only slightly; Gaius must have told her about Merlin’s plan. Arthur doesn’t think that Gaius would have been able to keep it from her, at any rate. “It’s a place not of this world, and it doesn’t follow this world’s laws. Or perhaps it’s above them, or dictates them—I’m not sure. But I was healed there from the wound Mordred dealt me, that otherwise would have killed me.” Gwen swallows, her fingers tightening over Arthur’s. “I spoke to someone there. She called herself a gatekeeper. She told me I was the once and future king. I’m—I’m not quite sure how to explain it.”
“Gaius has spoken to me of it a little,” Gwen says quietly. “Though I don’t claim to understand it.”
“I don’t, either.” Arthur never has. Merlin has mentioned it in passing, just vaguely, but resisted further explanation if Arthur pressed him on it. Arthur had thought it was just one of those things that was strange about Merlin, like the way that Merlin so fervently believes in fate and destiny even though Arthur never has. “She said I was healed, but I needed to wait in Avalon until it was time to return. And that would be far in the future.”
Gwen searches Arthur’s face. “How far?”
His can do no more than whisper. “Millennia.”
Her hand spasms, and she pulls away from him. She is staring.
“I know.” Arthur rubs at his face. He is, suddenly, exhausted. The long days of traveling have caught up to him, and so has maintaining his decorum before Gwen, with such a great, terrible truth still remaining to be told. “I told her I couldn’t wait that long. She said I could go back now, if I paid a price.”
“Price?”
“I must give up my kingship and abdicate the throne, as well as my role as the once and future king. So I did.”
Gwen stands abruptly, her hands pressed flat against the table’s surface. She is, Arthur notes, trembling, though doing her best to hide it. “You....” Yet she is unable to speak. Her right hand touches the ring, Ygraine’s ring, on her right hand. Then she grips her hand so tightly that her knuckles flash white.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “I made my choice. I’m no longer the king of Camelot.”
Gwen turns her back on him. Arthur looks down at the table, the grain in the wood. He wants to tell her that he’s sorry, but he can’t; not yet.
“I don’t believe you,” Gwen finally says.
“It’s the truth.” Arthur thinks about standing, about approaching her, and then decides against it. The choice that he made was, in many ways, selfish. He has to let Gwen react to it however she chooses. Anything else would be cowardly, unfair.
“I don’t understand.” Gwen turns. She looks remarkably composed. Yet her hands are clenched at her sides. “If you’re not the king, then who is?”
“There is no king of Camelot anymore.” Arthur hesitates. Say it, he tells himself; you must say it. “The queen now sits alone on the throne of Camelot.”
Gwen’s hands open. She stares. She does not speak.
“It’s you, Gwen,” Arthur says gently. “Camelot is yours.”
She shakes her head. Tears are rising to her eyes. “I’m not a Pendragon. I can’t rule the kingdom—for god’s sake, Arthur, I was a servant—”
“That doesn’t matter.” Arthur does stand, now, and approaches Gwen, but he takes careful notice of her reactions and deliberately does not draw too close. “I don’t know anyone more good than you, Gwen. Who cares for the people of this kingdom as much as I do. For three years you’ve been queen, and maybe you don’t see it, but I’ve watched the way you’ve changed. You can do this. There’s no one else I’d rather see on the throne.”
She laughs now, short and hurt. “That you’d rather see! What about who I’d rather see? Because it’s not me. Did you think about that at all?”
Arthur raises his hands helplessly. “If I had stayed in Avalon, you would still be queen, wouldn’t you?”
“Don’t.” Gwen’s voice is dangerously low. “If you had stayed in Avalon, I would be widowed, and then rise to the throne that way—don’t think I prefer it! Because I don’t.” She is crying now, though quietly. She wipes her tears with one shaking hand. “Don’t use the specter of your death to win this argument with me. For almost two weeks I’ve been waiting to know whether you lived or died, and now you come back and tell me this...!”
“I’m sorry. Guinevere, believe me, I am. It’s not what I wanted to happen either. But I couldn’t—I had to come back. I had to.”
Gwen half-turns from him, so that she stands in profile. She covers her face with her hands for a moment. “Yes,” she says quietly; “I suppose you did.”
“I’ll help you. However I can, I will. I promise you that. But you’ll need less help than you think.”
“Maybe.” Still not facing him. Still crying, her shoulders shaking, but slowly regaining control of herself as the seconds pass. Unable to keep from comforting her any longer, Arthur steps forward and tries to put his arms around her. “Don’t,” Gwen says. She stands stiff, unmoving. “Don’t, Arthur.”
“All right.” He lowers his arms. I’m sorry, he thinks again, but he decides that repeating that would just make things worse. “Merlin isn’t happy with me either, for this.”
“Merlin!” Gwen sounds, for the first time, truly angry. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t be. Oh, Arthur.” Her anger stabs like a pike. “How am I supposed to explain this to the court? To everyone? To our allies, for god’s sake! All your treaties are going to collapse.”
“They won’t.”
“I don’t know whether you really believe that or if you’re just saying it to pacify me,” Gwen says. Wonderingly. “And in this moment, I also don’t know whether I fucking care.”
Someone knocks on the door, twice. Gwen takes a breath and closes her eyes. “Merlin,” Arthur says. “I can send him away.”
“No. Don’t.” Gwen strides to the door and throws it open. “We’re seeing this conversation through to its end. Merlin!” She gives Merlin a bright, forced smile. “I’m so glad you’re back. Arthur’s just told me the wonderful news.”
Merlin glances between her and Arthur. When the door suddenly opened on him, he had looked upset, angry; but his expression shifted once he realized that both Arthur and Gwen were looking at him. Now he just looks resigned.
“I heard you’re not happy about it, either,” Gwen says. “How considerate of Arthur to think of us when he made this decision.”
Merlin’s eyes flash to her, then away. Color is rising in his face, but he looks otherwise calm. “I understand why you’re angry.”
“Of course you do. Am I angry because my life has been changed irrevocably without my consent? Am I angry because the one thing I didn’t want to do, but agreed to do so I could marry Arthur, is now the sole purpose of my life, and no one has ever, ever cared to wonder just how much of a sacrifice that was for me to make? Or am I angry because Arthur just told me I’m the queen of Camelot, yet he can’t be king, not now, not ever again—and he doesn’t seem to grasp what that means for us? For our marriage? For our lives?”
Merlin looks at Gwen unhappily. He says nothing. Arthur watches them from very far away; then he realizes that he is standing no more than a few paces from them.
Gwen makes a disgusted noise and turns away from Merlin. “Yet Arthur says you’re unhappy. I don’t see why you should be. Haven’t you gotten everything you’ve always wanted?”
“Gwen!” Arthur stares at her. He has never known Gwen to act like this—not with him, and certainly not ever with Merlin. The two of them have always been close in a way that Arthur has never fully understood. Gwen returns Arthur’s gaze defiantly. Daring him to speak.
Merlin stands framed in the doorway, unmoving. “I never wanted this.”
When Gwen turns back to him, Merlin looks away. Not looking at either of them. The silence in the council chambers becomes so immense that it seems to have its own center of gravity, and the three of them are falling into it. All standing sword-iron rigid, attempting to resist its pull. All of them about to snap.
“Go,” Gwen finally says. She doesn’t look at Merlin or Arthur, either. She turns and faces the windows overlooking the courtyard, her hands behind her back, and gazes outside. “I need to be alone, at least for tonight. We’ll work through more of this tomorrow.”
Arthur glances between her and Merlin. He is the only one doing any looking. “Gwen....”
“Go, Arthur.” Gwen’s voice is gentle now, sad; but firm, too. Arthur exhales, conceding defeat, and heads for the doorway where Merlin still stands. Merlin steps aside to let Arthur through. They pass within an inch of each other. Then Merlin follows.
When the doors close behind them, Arthur catches a last glimpse of Gwen. She stands alone, solitary, outlined in orange from the sunset outside, her hands clasped, her shoulders back, her spine straight, her chin raised.
I’m sorry, Arthur thinks. It had to be done.
He closes the door.
Merlin follows Arthur when he leaves the council chambers, though he doesn't seem as if he particularly wants to; rather that he does not know what else to do, or as if he can’t leave Arthur alone even if he wanted to. Which perhaps he does.
“Where will you go?” Merlin asks.
“Go?” Arthur stops and considers. Not to the royal chambers that he has shared these past three years with Gwen. He does not know where else to go but there. Uther’s chambers have long since been converted to storage. Arthur wouldn't want to go there, anyway. They were the chambers of a king. “I don’t know.”
Merlin sighs. “Come on, then,” he says, long-suffering, and gestures for Arthur to walk with him. “I haven’t seen Gaius yet. I need to tell him we’re back.”
Arthur almost asks about that, about Gaius—how long has Gaius known that Merlin is a sorcerer, for one thing: has it been long? Years? Since Merlin first set foot in Camelot? Arthur can hardly believe that—certainly he finds it hard to believe possible, when Uther was king—but he looks at Merlin, and thinks of the devotion that he has always shown Gaius. If Gaius has known this whole time, then he has also been Merlin’s only true source of support and understanding: of unconditional love. When Gaius first defended Merlin shortly after Arthur found out about his magic, Arthur had been angry; now he is grateful. At least Merlin has had this much. At least he has not been totally alone, serving a prince and then a king who crusaded against magic and sorcerers alike.
I haven’t done right by those closest to me, Arthur thinks; and it took realizing that to understand I never did right by the people of Camelot. Arthur doesn’t understand how Merlin does not see it that way. How he has not always seen it that way. How he can feel anything but resentment for Arthur and what Arthur has done.
Outside of Gaius’s chambers, Arthur holds out his hand and stops Merlin. He stares at him. “Merlin,” he says—realization hitting him with the force of a hammerstrike—“not four months ago you told me there could be no place for magic in Camelot.”
Merlin does not look at him. “I did.”
Arthur searches Merlin’s sideturned face and gleans nothing. “Why?”
A pause. Merlin gently extricates his arm from Arthur’s grasp and puts his hand on the doorknob. “Because I thought it was what you needed to hear.”
“You....”
But Merlin has already pushed open the door. Gaius looks up, sees them both, and stands abruptly from where he is seated at the table in the center of the room. “Merlin!”
Merlin crosses the space between them in three quick strides and hugs him. Gaius looks over Merlin’s shoulder at Arthur, open-mouthed.
“Sire,” Gaius says. Even from this distance Arthur can see Merlin wince and Gaius’s hands tighten over his shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re all right. You are...?”
“Completely healed.” Arthur looks at Gaius and Merlin and decides that being quick about it is probably for the best. “But I’m no longer king.”
Gaius frowns. He holds Merlin at arm’s length and looks at him, questioning.
Merlin, apparently, has had enough for the day. “Let him explain it to you. I’m going to go take a bath.” He enters the side room where Gaius presumably keeps the washbasin. The door does not quite slam shut behind him, but it sounds as if Merlin thought about it.
Gaius and Arthur stand in silence for a moment. Finally Gaius sighs and gestures to the table. “You may as well sit down. It sounds like quite a story.”
“Not really,” says Arthur. “More of a rectification.” But he sits across from Gaius and tells him what happened. During the telling, Gaius’s expression changes from bemused to amazed to unreadable. When he finishes, Arthur rests his chin on his palm and waits for Gaius to speak.
For a long time, Gaius does not. Then he says, “I see now why Merlin is upset.”
“Yeah.” Arthur does not add that he still hasn’t figured that out, yet. “I knew it would be a shock, but...I guess I just didn’t think about it.”
Gaius almost smiles. “No, I suppose you didn’t.” He watches Arthur discerningly, the gaze of a physician, the gaze of an old family friend. The gaze of the man whom Arthur went to on a handful of occasions during his childhood, looking for reassurance and comfort when he knew that Uther had none to give. Yet Gaius had. He and Gaius have never spoken about those incidents; certainly not since Arthur became king. But Arthur can tell that they’re both thinking of them now.
“Why, Arthur?” Gaius finally asks.
Arthur glances at the door to the other room. It is still closed. He cannot hear anything from behind it, but he hasn’t since Merlin finished filling the basin. “I thought that would be obvious.”
He really did. But if Merlin has realized the most obvious reason, he has said nothing of it: indicated it not at all.
Gaius smiles. “I suppose it is.” He rubs at his temples. “For some reason, all I can imagine is what Uther would say.”
Arthur snorts. “That’s what Morgana said.”
“I imagine she did.” Gaius shakes his head. “So Gwen is queen of Camelot. And what will you do?”
Arthur shrugs. “I don’t really know.”
“Of course you don’t.” Gaius looks amused, still lost in thought. He rises and starts putting the potions and salves that he had been attending to when Arthur and Merlin arrived back onto their respective shelves, shaking his head back and forth, still smiling to himself. There is something sad about his smile, too.
“Will Merlin ever be all right with it, do you think?” Arthur asks. “I don’t know.... I haven’t wanted to pressure him to talk about it. So we haven’t. Talked, that is.”
Gaius’s hands still, then resume their ministrations. “You must understand, Arthur. This is a terrible shock, and not just for Merlin. I don’t fault you for your choice. It was yours to make, after all, even though it will affect many people’s lives; that is the way of all a king’s choices. Even the last one he makes. But for Merlin, for me, for Guinevere, for everyone who lives in this city, everyone in this kingdom—we have been ruled by a Pendragon for nearly fifty years. I claim no deep love for Uther’s reign, despite what my actions during his life might suggest. I suppose you’ve realized I’ve kept Merlin’s secret for him this past decade and done all I could to protect him.”
“Yes,” Arthur says quietly.
“But I always knew you were going to be king after Uther. I did what I could during Uther’s reign to alleviate the harm of his actions—though god knows I didn’t do enough, and I will always have to live with that. Not enough, at least, until Merlin came to Camelot.... Yet I’ve known you since you were born, and I’ve always believed you are of a different caliber than your father, a caliber both more noble and more good. Noble in spirit, not in lineage, because, as we both know, lineage ultimately means little. Merlin wanted more than anything else for you to become king. He dedicated his entire life to ensuring that not only would that happen, but that it would happen in the way that destiny foretold. All this past year—longer, even—Merlin has been obsessed with this: ensuring your continued kingship by preventing your impending death.”
Arthur stares.
Gaius sighs and sits at the table once more. “I know. I think that once, Merlin served you because he wanted to see what place he might have in a future where you were king—whether even, someday, magic might be accepted in Camelot, and Merlin therefore properly recognized as the most powerful sorcerer of our time. Perhaps all times. Because he is that, Arthur. But if Merlin did ever feel that way, it wasn’t for long. Very quickly his heart changed, and he served you for the love of Camelot. And then very soon after that, he did it solely for you. He wanted nothing for himself. He wanted all for you.”
Arthur realizes that his right hand is clenched in a fist atop the table. He slowly relaxes it, the metacarpals spreading even. “That’s what I can’t understand, Gaius. My father made Merlin’s life hell. When I became king, I did no better. I used to speak to Merlin so often about how much I hated sorcerers, hated magic, all because I didn’t understand it and I was stupid and foolish and thought I was keeping Camelot safe. And somehow he bore that! He never said a word to me in defense of himself or anyone else. I don’t see how he could have wanted me to be king when that’s the sort of king I proved myself to be.”
“I don’t know that it makes sense.” Gaius sounds almost as if he agrees with Arthur, and also as if he thinks that Arthur is paying no attention to him whatsoever. “I also don’t know that it has to. Merlin was content to use his gift—his wonderful, priceless gift—to serve you and nothing else in secret for all of his life. Now he doesn’t have to. In fact, now that’s impossible. You’re no longer the king of Camelot. You no longer need serving. You know about his magic. All the constants of Merlin’s life have been overturned. In renouncing your kingship, you have renounced the purpose of his life. You have renounced him.”
Arthur’s face feels hot. He looks away from Gaius. The understanding sympathy in Gaius’s gaze is almost too much to bear. “I did this for him,” Arthur says quietly.
“I know. Both things remain true, though they contradict each other.” Gaius examines Arthur. Arthur can feel his searching, though he still does not look at Gaius. You have renounced him—the one thing that Arthur never wanted to do. The one thing that Arthur has never even been able to imagine doing.
What was it Morgana said? That Arthur accepted magic in a span of days for Merlin, yet never did that for her. She is his sister, and he never did it for her. Yet he did it for Merlin, and he would again, and again and again. A hundred times over, a thousand. As many times as it took.
But isn’t that the problem? It is always Arthur doing the accepting, always Merlin being accepted, and for something that he shouldn’t have had to hide in the first place—something that Arthur should already have accepted from the moment they met. Something that Arthur had the ability to accept for a full decade, and only now has he come down, graciously, from the mountain of his kingship to hold out forgiveness in the palms of his hands. But it’s not Merlin who needs to be forgiven. It’s Arthur.
The side room door opens. Merlin enters, disheveled, grumpy, his hair damp, his feet bare. He looks at the two of them, then throws a handful of clothes and a towel at Arthur. “Here. If the both of you are finished talking about me when I’m not around.” He stomps into his room. This time, the door does slam.
Arthur, having mostly caught the clothes and towel, looks at Gaius, who shrugs. “Go on then, while the water is still hot. Are you hungry?”
Arthur considers. “Famished,” he says, and gets up to take a bath.
When the door to the side room shuts behind him, he is enveloped by the silence. The room is cold, so far from the fire, but peacefully silent, and steam rises thick from the bath water. Arthur dips in a finger and pulls back, hissing. Merlin must have recharmed it when he was finished; there's no way that the water could have retained heat so long otherwise. Arthur sets aside the clothes and towel and undresses, exhaling through his clenched jaw, and then slides into the basin until the water reaches his shoulders and the steam rises cloying around his face. He shuts his eyes. It is the first time that he has ever been in the bath after Merlin rather than the other way around. Not that Merlin used Arthur’s bath in the royal chambers often; just every now and then at the end of a long day, when Arthur could tell that Merlin was exhausted and would simply collapse into bed and fall asleep when he returned to Gaius’s chambers. So a few times Arthur had offered Merlin his own bath. Or ordered that he use it. The disparity between servant and king had always clouded everything between them. Now that cloud is gone, in theory; in practice, Arthur has no idea where he and Merlin stand.
If we stand, he thinks, it is on shaky ground. It would be all too easy to let that ground crumble beneath us until there is nothing left.
Still thinking on that, Arthur gets out of the bath and dries off. Only then does he realize that the clothes Merlin provided are Merlin’s own. Of course. Obviously. It’s not as if any of Arthur’s clothes are here, and Arthur needs to change: the tunic that he’s been wearing since Camlann is filthy. Yet somehow he hadn’t expected this. He holds up the nightclothes that Merlin gave him. Will they even fit?
The nightshirt proves tight in the shoulders but otherwise serviceable. Luckily he and Merlin are of a height. Arthur sets his dirty tunic aside with the rest of the washing-up and resolves to wash it himself in the morning rather than let Merlin do it. Then, quietly self-conscious, he enters the main room where Merlin and Gaius are setting out cutlery and plates.
Later, after helping Gaius wash the dishes—which Merlin watched Arthur do with obvious amusement-slash-irritation—and bidding him good night, Arthur stands alone with Merlin in the main room of Gaius’s chambers. Merlin looks at him, silent, having said little to either Arthur or Gaius during dinner. Then he abruptly turns and leaves, entering his own quarters.
Well, then. Arthur looks around the room. The fire is still going, at least, and he can probably figure out a way to make one of the patient pallets somewhat comfortable. Maybe. Arthur crouches by the fire and shifts the logs with the poker. The heat that the embers release makes his lips feel suddenly dry and cracked.
Someone clears their throat. Arthur turns and sees Merlin standing against his doorframe, his arms crossed, watching him. “Are you coming?” Merlin asks.
“Oh.” Arthur stands and sets aside the poker. “Uh, yeah.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Idiot,” he mutters, and reenters his room. This time Arthur follows him.
A pallet, blanket, and pillow lie on the floor across the room from Merlin’s bed. Not that Merlin’s room is very large, but the attempt to enforce a boundary of distance seems deliberate, and Arthur notes it so as to respect it. Merlin gestures at the set-up. “Do you need anything else?”
“No.” Muted.
“All right, then.” Merlin surveys him for a moment. He looks as if he might say something else. I didn’t mean to talk about you so much when you weren’t there, Arthur thinks to say; you just confound me is all. But he doesn’t.
“I’m going to sleep,” Merlin says. And, true to his word, he gets into his bed, pulls up the covers, and rolls over to face the wall. The candle burning on the bedside table suddenly goes out, though Arthur feels no rush of air.
Arthur stands motionless, waiting for his eyes to adjust; then he sits cross-legged on the pallet with his back against the wall. For a moment he had been worried that Merlin would try to offer him the bed and take the pallet. One awkward situation avoided, at least.
You have renounced him, Gaius said. Yet what Arthur had wanted to do—why he made his choice, unquestioning—had been the unconditional opposite. Not to renounce Merlin, but to embrace him, and for the first time in his entirety: nothing left unturned.
Arthur remembers the look on Gwen’s face when she realized the meaning of all that Arthur told her. She’d grasped its implications far more quickly than he had, and that wasn’t fair, either. In the past few hours Arthur has learned that guilt stabs the same way a sword does beneath the ribs. He has had a great deal of recent experience with both. He tips his head back against the wall, looking up at the dark ceiling, and sighs. Then he freezes, realizing how that must have sounded to Merlin. He holds his breath.
Silence lengthens. Then Merlin noisily throws back the covers and sits up. The candle flares. “Well? What?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean.... I was thinking about something else.” Mostly true.
Merlin makes a noise and looks as if he will roll over again. Then he says, “Gwen?”
Arthur shrugs. Yes. No.
Merlin looks at him for a long moment. In the dim light his face is hard to read. Arthur focuses on trying to do so, on the flickering of the candle flame, and not on how the fabric of Merlin’s tunic feels when it rubs rough-woven against his shoulders.
“Did you really not realize what this would mean for you and Gwen?” Merlin asks.
“I suppose not the full extent of it.”
“Would you have chosen differently if you had?”
“No.”
Merlin, still looking. His jaw works, his throat. “I don’t understand.”
Arthur leans his head against the wall again. Looks back at the ceiling. “I know. It’s all right, Merlin. Really.”
“Oh, wonderful. I’m glad you’ve decided my feelings are appropriate.”
“Merlin—”
“That’s not what you meant. I know.” Merlin lies back against the bed. His hands come up to run haphazardly through his hair, which Arthur tries not to watch. The flickering light makes it hard to tell, but Arthur thinks that Merlin’s hands are shaking.
“Merlin.” Arthur leans forward. He wants to reach out, to touch Merlin, but he restrains himself. Merlin looks at him. “You were wrong.”
A frown. “What?”
“There’s always been a place for magic in Camelot. I didn’t know it, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. It’s always been true. You prove it. I can’t imagine Camelot without you and I’ve never wanted to, not since you came here. You....” Arthur struggles, fumbles. “If Camelot is worth anything now—if I was worth anything as its king—it’s because of you.”
Merlin turned his face from Arthur while he spoke, lying rigid; but now he looks back at him. He is close to tears. “You give me too much credit.”
“You take not enough. You never have.” Arthur is kneeling now, his hands on his knees as he looks at Merlin, who is shaky, torn, embarrassed, sad. Arthur finds that he has reached the end of his tolerance for seeing those expressions on Merlin’s face.
“Merlin,” he says; “can I kiss you?”
Merlin’s shocked laugh, a quiet hah. “I think you’d better.”
Arthur walks on his knees to Merlin’s bed, looks down at him. He can see Merlin’s throat shift as he swallows. Arthur puts his hand to Merlin’s face, slides his palm over his cheekbone.
“Well?” Merlin whispers.
Arthur leans down and kisses him. Merlin’s hands immediately cup Arthur’s face, his jaw, and slide over the back of his neck through his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Arthur happily obliges. When Merlin shifts away after a moment to breathe, to press his mouth to Arthur’s cheek, to touch their foreheads together, Arthur sees that he is blinking away tears.
“Come here, then.” Merlin’s voice is thick.
“Hm?”
Merlin moves across the mattress. “Here.” He pulls Arthur onto the narrow bed and wriggles close when Arthur instinctually makes space for Merlin to slide into. Merlin presses his mouth against Arthur’s neck and exhales, long and slow, and Arthur tightens his arms around him.
“Are you all right?” Arthur asks.
Another short laugh. “No.” When Arthur tries to turn his head to look at him, Merlin kisses him again. “Let’s just sleep.”
Arthur, exhausted, sensing that this is as far as their conversation will go for now, does. It takes less time than he expected to fall asleep. It always does, with Merlin there.
Arthur wakes up the next morning to find himself alone in Merlin’s bed. He lies there for a while, slowly coming to full wakefulness, and listens for sounds from the other room. He hears some, faint, a quiet-morning rustling. He gets out of bed, dresses in the clothes folded on the bedside table that Merlin laid out for him, and goes into the main room.
Merlin is there, making breakfast. Oatmeal simmers in a pot over the fire, and Merlin sits at the table, slicing apples into pieces. He looks up when Arthur comes in. “Good morning. I thought you’d sleep for another hour or two.”
“Ha, ha.” Arthur sits beside Merlin. His struggle with early mornings is a long-running joke between the two of them.
“Before you say anything,” Merlin adds, “this is for me and Gaius as well. I’m not just making breakfast for you.”
“Okay.” Arthur watches Merlin’s hands. The knife in his right, the apple in his left. Merlin makes neat, swift cuts, and slices fall out of the apple one after another. Merlin sees Arthur watching and the corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly. “Could you use magic for that?” Arthur asks.
“I don’t know.” The movement of his thumb, another apple slice, and then all that remains is the core. Merlin sets it aside and starts working on a new apple. “I suppose I could. I don’t really know the words for it.”
“The words?”
“A lot of magic is words. Or maybe spellcasting is storytelling, I’m not quite sure. Anyway, if I did figure out a spell to cut apples, it’d probably itch or something and not be worth it. Besides, I like doing it by hand.”
“Itch. Like the disguises yesterday?”
“Yeah.” Still slicing.
Arthur reaches out and snags the newest apple slice. “So all spells need words? I don’t see how you could’ve hidden that from me for so long. Surely I would have noticed you muttering incantations all the time.”
Merlin snorts. “No you wouldn’t've, because you didn’t. You’re less observant than you think. But no, not all spells need words. All spells need intent, I think: intent for what you want to happen. The easiest way to translate that intent into something actionable is through words. But you don’t always need them. Sometimes the intent is enough, if you’re good enough and have a strong enough grasp on your purpose.”
“Like the candle last night. You didn’t say anything, it just went out when you lay down, and then lit again when you sat up.”
“Oh. That.” Merlin looks embarrassed. “Sometimes things just happen around me. That’s what I had to be most careful to keep you from noticing. If I’m not paying attention, small spells will cast themselves.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Merlin smacks Arthur’s hand away when he tries to take another apple slice. “That was the most upsetting thing, really, about—well, right before Camlann.” He seems to realize that he has said more than he meant to and falls silent.
Arthur dodges Merlin’s hand and snags another apple slice. “What do you mean?” Merlin doesn’t look at him. “What happened?”
Merlin is quiet for a long time. He finishes slicing the last apple, then sets the knife and core aside. “Morgana took my magic away.”
Arthur stares. “What?”
Merlin shrugs. He stands and goes to the fire, stirs the oatmeal, and then takes the pot off the heat. He sets it on the table and starts ladling oatmeal into bowls, placing apple slices on top.
“That’s why you left,” says Arthur. “Why you didn’t come to Camlann with me. You weren’t running errands for Gaius at all.”
Merlin nods. He slides one of the bowls and a spoon towards Arthur. “I had to get it back. Without magic...I couldn’t do anything.” He shrugs again. Embarrassed. “And I still almost didn’t make it in time. I don’t know how she did it.”
Arthur wishes Merlin would look at him. His expression is hard to read, but Arthur can sense his discomfort and shame. “Merlin....”
“It’s all right. I’m going to fetch Gaius.” Merlin crosses the room towards the door to Gaius’s personal quarters. As he walks past, Arthur reaches out and grabs hold of his wrist.
Merlin looks at him. Arthur tugs, gently. Merlin, acquiescing, bends down so that Arthur can kiss him.
“It is all right,” Arthur says.
Hah. “It’s almost wasn’t.”
“But it was.” Arthur rubs his thumb over the inside of Merlin’s wrist, the soft thin skin there. He can feel Merlin’s pulse.
Merlin shivers. “Yeah,” he says, quiet, and he almost smiles.
They meet with Gwen later that morning in the royal chambers. She does not look as if she has slept; or if she has, then not well. She greets them briskly, emotionlessly. Arthur wants to ask her whether she is all right, then he glances at Merlin, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Not the time. And it’s not Arthur’s place to ask anymore. Right.
“So.” Gwen stands at her desk and braces herself against it, looking at a stack of notes that she presumably stayed up all night writing. “I have no idea how to tell a kingdom that its king has stepped down and left his commoner wife on the throne. If you have any thoughts, I’m open to them. But that’s actually not what I wanted to talk about first.”
“Then what?” asks Merlin. He still stands slightly behind Arthur, to his right. His hands are clasped behind his back.
Gwen looks at him. “It concerns you, actually.” She sits behind her desk and takes a breath. Her gaze flits from Merlin to Arthur. “Well, it’s nothing that shouldn’t have been done years ago. I take partial responsibility for that, Merlin.”
“I don’t understand.”
Half a smile. Gwen dips her head, then lifts her chin. “Directly after announcing that I’m the queen regnant, I’m revoking the magic ban in Camelot.”
Arthur’s mouth drops open. Even through his shock, he has enough sense to watch Merlin; but Merlin does not seem to react at all. He stands utterly still, staring at Gwen. Then he glances to Arthur, just for a moment. And then he looks away. His hand, open at his side, closes.
“Perhaps that will be too much at once, and the people of the city will throw me out of the kingdom.” Gwen’s voice is light, but Arthur can see the tenseness in her shoulders. Merlin and Gwen, the two people who Arthur knows best in this world—the two people who he thought he knew best, at least. He can read their emotions even through these small gestures, these faintest of tells.
As for himself, Arthur doesn’t know what he feels. Anger, though he does not know why. Shame, also. Merlin’s glance flicking to him, flicking away, like he can’t stand to look at Arthur in this moment. Arthur can hardly stand to be himself.
“But it should be done,” Gwen says. “And it should have been done as soon as Uther was dead. I’m sorry, Merlin.”
Merlin shakes his head but stops halfway through the motion. “Don’t be.” Still not looking at Arthur. “I’ll help you, if you need it. If you need to know anything about magic—if you have questions about the sorts of magic users in the kingdom—anything.”
“I’ll ask you.” Gwen’s voice is gentle. “We can sort that out later.” She looks down at her copious notes, then stands once more, her palms flat against the desk’s mahogany surface. “That brings me to our next most pressing matter, Morgana. I don’t see any point keeping her indefinitely in the cells, but I’m not sure what other choice we have.”
Merlin says nothing. Arthur looks between the two of them, and then remembers what Merlin had said that morning. “Could we take her magic away?”
Gwen frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Morgana took Merlin’s magic before Camlann. If we could take hers, then she wouldn’t pose a threat to anyone anymore.”
Gwen seems to consider it, watching Arthur. “I’m not sure. I mean, I don’t know how we would do that, but if you say it can be done....”
“No,” Merlin interrupts quietly. He is looking at Arthur now; and to Arthur’s great surprise, he looks furious. “You can’t lift the magic ban in Camelot and then take away the magic of someone you don’t like. To have your magic taken away—the way that feels—I can’t explain it so either of you will understand. But I won’t do that to someone else, not even to the person who did it to me. And I won’t sanction either of you in doing it. If magic is going to be free in Camelot, let it be fully free. Don't offer an apology in one hand and punishment in the other.”
Gwen gazes at Merlin, steady, still frowning. I should have asked you, Arthur thinks, watching Merlin; all these years, I should have asked you. I never even thought to do it. All this time, the thought never crossed my mind.
Then Gwen nods. “You’re right, Merlin. We won’t do it.” She looks down at her desk, her hands, then back at the two of them. “I’ll figure it out." She takes a breath. “For now, I suppose I have to address the court.”
Though he knows it might be foolish to do so, Arthur says, “We’ll come with you.”
But Gwen, for the first time all that morning, smiles at him. “Thank you, Arthur.” When he reaches for her hand, she lets him take it, just for a moment.
v.
True to Merlin’s instructions, the knights guarding her cell bring Morgana food twice that day and water three times. They even clean out her chamber pot, though she notices that they instruct a maidservant to do it rather than do it themselves. When Morgana tried casting a spell to shield her from herself jailors’ gazes while she pissed, she had been surprised to find that the spell worked for several minutes before sputtering out. Merlin, ever courteous even in victory. He has thought of everything. How long, then, has he spent dreaming of the day when he would be able to lock her in these cells? How much time spent dreaming of her defeat, her ruin, his triumph?
The idea makes her bitter and tired, so she does her best not to dwell on it. But not dwelling has never been her specialty. She stands at the window, just able to peer through the bottom of it, and watches people’s feet pass by in the castle courtyard. At one point she thrusts her arm through the bars just as a child, probably no more than seven years old, walks past. The girl jumps back, startled, but does not scream. When she recovers herself she peers into the cell window with a haughty look on her face before ambling away. It makes Morgana laugh for a long time. Then she sits with her back against the wall, trying to sleep. She didn't sleep well during the walk to Camelot with Merlin and Arthur, but she can’t sleep well in these cells, either. Being back reminds her too much of her youth. Of growing up alongside Arthur, slowly learning to hate that which Arthur learned to love.
So she had assumed. Yet what had Arthur said? That he thought Uther had always favored Morgana, and not him. Maybe it’s the nature of siblings to always be jealous of the other no matter what; Morgana wouldn’t rightly know. But how can Arthur say that when Uther gave him everything and Morgana nothing? Not even the right to know her true parentage?
She has always known that Arthur and Uther did not get along. Where she would fight with Uther, come to verbal blows with him a few times a week or more, Arthur never did. He used to leave Camelot whenever the tension between him and Uther became unbearable; he would saddle up his horse, find a few knights, and go out on patrol, or go hunting, or come up with some other such excuse. Morgana had once found this funny, and cowardly; he’s your father, she wanted to say to Arthur. He’s your father, and you can’t even speak the truth to his face. I’m just his ward and I do it more than you ever will. But she wasn’t just Uther’s ward. She was his daughter, Arthur’s sister. She still is. That is something that can’t ever be changed, even if everything else does.
Knife to her throat, you still could not make Morgana admit this aloud—but she has admitted to herself at least that Arthur was a better king than Uther ever was. Just as shortsighted as their father, when it came to magic and freedom, but where Uther had only ruthlessness and pride, Arthur had heart and courage and—amazingly enough, as recent events have proven—a willingness to admit his faults.
No; she will never say any of that aloud. Not to anyone, certainly not to Arthur. And it doesn’t matter anymore, because he is no longer king. But she has still thought it.
How funny, Morgana thinks, and how cruel, the universe’s sense of humor—your servant turned out to be the most powerful sorcerer of our age, Arthur; and you made my servant the queen of Camelot.
Thinking on this—brooding on this—Morgana does fall asleep then, for a little while.
She wakes up to the sound of something moving outside her cell. She sits up, having pitched onto her side while she slept, and peers into the gloom. The sun has set, but no one has yet lit any torches, so she can’t see who has scraped a chair over the floor and placed it before her cell and now sits there watching her.
“Yes?” Morgana says testily. “Is that you again, Merlin? Come to gloat some more?”
An almost-laugh. “No.” The figure strikes a match, and orange light flares between her fingertips as she lights a candle and sets it on the ground. There is Gwen, sitting with her legs crossed in one of the rickety chairs that the jail guards share between shifts. She tilts her head and looks back at Morgana, unsmiling.
“Gwen,” Morgana says, the name shocked out of her. Her mouth had gone dry as soon as she heard Gwen speak, and she clears her throat awkwardly, fumbling for the pitcher of water. She takes a sip, pretending the act is a casual one, not one born of alarm.
“That’s not the proper way to address your queen. But I’ve never cared about that, and neither did you, once, when I was your servant and you nearly a princess. So I suppose I’ll let it pass.”
“How generous of you.” Morgana tries to sound scathing and doesn’t hit the mark. She has been trying not to think of the hatred in Gwen’s gaze the night before. There is no hatred in her eyes now. There is no emotion there at all. It’s not an expression that Morgana has ever seen Gwen bear. Gwen has always been passionate, quick to happiness and boldness both.
Gwen smiles. Her hair is pulled into a long, curly braid over her left shoulder, and the circlet around her forehead glints gold in the candlelight. The ruby color of her dress feels like a provocation somehow. It has always been Morgana’s favorite color. “I didn’t realize visiting prisoners required such formal attire,” Morgana says.
Gwen looks down at herself as if she has forgotten what she is wearing. “I just came from addressing the court. There was quite a bit to say. I had to look the part.”
“Oh, yes. Your new queenship.”
Gwen’s mouth curves. “And there’s the jealousy. I was looking for that. If there’s anything that brings me joy right now, it’s knowing just how much you hate this.”
Morgana says nothing, but she turns her face away. She is grateful for the dim candlelight and the way it masks her expression. If someone had told her a year ago, half a year ago, that one day Gwen would be the sole ruler of Camelot—Morgana does not know what she would have done. Anything in her power to prevent it. The knowledge would have consumed her even more than her hatred of Arthur has these past years.
Yet she had wanted Arthur dead. And wouldn’t that have produced the same result: Gwen as the lone queen of Camelot? Then what would Morgana have done? Would she have overseen Gwen’s death, as well? Yet that idea has never even occurred to Morgana, not until this very moment. If she had succeeded in killing Arthur, she would have needed to kill Gwen next. And if she still wants to be queen, Gwen is the person now standing in her way.
“Of course your bitterness only makes the reason I’m here that much more stupid,” Gwen says, “but I’ve made up my mind, and I’m not going to change it. Yes—I’m the queen of Camelot. A long time ago you would have been happy for me, I think. Maybe not. I don’t know when you became so obsessed with having the throne for yourself. Only when you knew it was within your grasp, maybe, and that Uther didn’t want you to have it.” Gwen smiles again. “He didn’t want me to have it, either. I think he would hate me sitting on it more than he would hate you doing so. Maybe that will comfort you.”
“Don’t talk to me about Uther.” Morgana struggles to keep her voice clipped, emotionless. She has gotten better at hiding her petulance as time has gone by, but it can still sneak up on her.
“Why not? You think I don’t remember why you hated him? I did too, you know. He had my father killed. For sorcery, as ironic as that is. And I watched all those long years that he made Arthur’s life miserable—and yours, as well.”
“He’s dead,” Morgana says. “Let him rot.”
“All right. He’s not why I’m here, anyway.” Gwen stands, brushing off the front of her dress. Her braid nearly reaches past her waist, a thick dark plait that Morgana wants to reach out and yank. “I might as well do what I came down here to do.” And from one of her sleeves, Gwen produces a heavy iron key.
Morgana, blinking, gets to her feet.
“My first act as queen was to repeal the magic ban in Camelot.” Gwen slides the key into the lock of Morgana’s cell and turns it. “My second act is letting you go free, because I don’t care to have you wasting away down here, brooding, while I’m trying to rule a kingdom. And I can’t lock you up for being a sorcerer anymore. Though Arthur did suggest that we take your magic away.”
Terror knocks Morgana off balance. If Gwen can do that—if Merlin can do that—and Morgana doesn’t see why they wouldn’t, if they have the means. They are going to take her magic away. They are going to take away the only part of her that still makes sense.
Gwen gives a small laugh, no doubt at the look on Morgana’s face, and opens the door. “You’ll keep your magic, Morgana. Merlin was against it, and right now I suppose I trust him more than anybody, though I don’t particularly like it. You’re free to go as you are. But if you cause any trouble at all, we’ll know. Merlin will know. And he’s made it clear to me that I won’t be able to stop him from coming down on you should you cross him again. I admit, I probably wouldn’t try very hard. So keep that in mind.” Gwen puts the key back in her sleeve and steps back from the cell. She watches Morgana expectantly. “Well? Aren’t you going?”
Morgana takes an unsteady step forward. A trick, surely; this must be some sort of ruse, and if she tries to step through the open doorway of her cell, magic will strike her down and Gwen will laugh.
“Go on,” Gwen says. “I haven’t got all night.”
Morgana steps to the doorway, and then through it. Nothing happens. She stares at Gwen, dizzy. “You....”
“Yes?”
“You repealed the magic ban.”
“Very first thing.”
“Why?”
“Because it was wrong. It took me a long time to know it, longer than it should have. I hated Uther for killing my father but never the reason for why he did it, not until recently. Even had my father been a sorcerer, would he have deserved the death Uther gave him? Did any of the men and women Uther had hanged? Did Merlin deserve to live his life in secret, knowing that if anyone know what he was, he’d be in danger of his life?”
“Of course,” Morgana says. “I see it now. You've changed your mind for Merlin, too. Just like Arthur did.”
All for Merlin, she thinks, and not for me.
“I don’t think you deserved to be run out of Camelot, either,” Gwen says. “Not for having magic, at least. But that was never the heart of it with you, not really, though you’ve always used it as a shield to hide what you truly are.”
“And what is that?”
Gwen looks at her. For a long time, she says nothing. And when she does speak, she does not answer, not really. “You tried to kill the person I love. You tried to use me to do it. Why? Would that have brought you more joy, somehow, than doing it yourself?”
Morgana swallows, looks away. She remembers the love in Gwen’s eyes, that brief artificial love that Morgana's enchantment had bought, that had faded as soon as the spell’s life ended. “I don’t know why,” she says. It’s the truth.
Gwen snorts. “Of course you don’t.” She takes a step back, looking critically at Morgana. “Magic is free in Camelot. And, for the time being, so are you. I don’t care what you do, so long as you don’t hurt anyone else. If you do, Merlin won’t hold back. And I, unlike Arthur, won’t stop him.”
“I could strike you down where you stand,” Morgana says. “Merlin’s wards only bind me when I’m inside the cell.” This, too, is true; she can feel magic at her call again, waiting to be summoned, asked to serve.
“Then do it,” says Gwen. “But you won’t.”
They stare at each other for a long, horrible moment. Morgana feels hot, then cold, as if her blood is being run over an open flame, then through a glacier. She does nothing, moves not at all. She wants to break the stone walls around them, send the castle tumbling in on itself, burying them beneath its ruin. She wants to reach out and hug Gwen, slap her, hold her, be struck by her.
You repealed the magic ban, Morgana thinks. Just like that. You've set all of us free. All that, but not for me.
After a long time, she turns away.
“Wonderful. That’s sorted, then.” Gwen heads back up the hallway, then stops and half-faces Morgana once more. “Oh, I should mention I didn’t tell Merlin I was going to do this. I expect he won’t be too happy about it. I don’t think he’ll do anything, but just in case he does, you might want to get out of the city and make yourself scarce.” She smiles again, one last time: bitter, unhappy, but amused, too. “You’ve got straw in your hair, by the way. Goodbye, Morgana.”
Then Gwen turns and climbs the stairs and is gone, leaving Morgana standing free, weary, alone, in the basement of the castle of Camelot. Morgana reaches up with one hand and pulls the straw out of her hair, dazed. Where will I go? she wonders. Where can I go?
She takes the other passageway that leads to the street outside, passing no one. When she casts a spell to disguise herself, the magic works unrestricted. Merlin’s wards can no longer touch her.
Morgana wraps her cloak around her shoulders and starts to walk.
A long time ago, Morgana and Gwen had been more than friends. They were never loud about it, not even to themselves; life in the Camelot court had been unbearably lonely for Morgana for years, even with her teasing friendship with Arthur. She and Arthur were just not allowed to be close—Uther always watched over them, his presence like a dark cloud over these two children who did not know that they were both his, that they were siblings. How much would that have changed Morgana’s life, had she known? Might she not have felt so alone, so abandoned in Camelot, by her parents for dying, by the world for turning its back on her when she realized that she had magic, that her dreams were not just nightmares but the stuff of semi-prophecy, tempestuous specter-truths? Knowing that might have changed everything. Yet again, as always, Uther’s reach is long and terrible, ever-lasting even all these years after his death.
So Morgana had been lonely and alone. When Gwen was first assigned as her maid, Morgana had wanted little to do with her outside of what was expected: that Gwen would wash Morgana’s clothes, clean her rooms, bring her meals, run her errands. Morgana had had maidservants all her life and been friendly enough with all of them, but there was always that barrier between them, that insurmountable fact of hierarchical power imbalance. Gwen was sweet, and shy at first, not soft-spoken but not quick to offer her opinion unasked for, either. She said “Yes milady” and “no milady” when asked questions; she did as Morgana instructed; she washed Morgana’s clothes and brushed her hair and curtsied when she left the room, and Morgana stewed in her painful adolescent loneliness, her misery. But then the most amazing thing happened, the most wonderful thing of all, because Gwen saw Morgana’s misery and had a kind enough heart that she wanted to try her best to lessen it.
It started small enough. Extra strawberries with Morgana’s breakfast, or her clothes mended without Morgana having to ask. Paints and brushes left inconspicuously in Morgana’s chambers, and Gwen asking, as if surprised, “Oh milady, do you paint?” Morgana didn’t, but when the supplies appeared she tried her hand at it and found that she enjoyed it. Gwen began to spend her free time in Morgana’s chambers, unobtrusive, doing needlework or sewing or polishing armor for her father in the corner of Morgana’s room, humming to herself, until her presence became a fixture in Morgana’s life, one that Morgana noticed with pain when absent.
Uther always warned Morgana and Arthur not to be too friendly with their servants, to never treat them as anything other than subordinates, but nor did he ever supply opportunities for the two of them to make friends their own age. Morgana, hesitatingly, began to ask Gwen if she wanted to do things together—did she want to paint, to read, to share dinner tonight? Gwen always said yes. And as Gwen became less shy around Morgana, and Morgana around her, Morgana began to learn that Gwen was delightfully funny, wickedly smart. She believed in the same things that Morgana did: doing what was right, preventing what was wrong. She made the most wonderful faces behind the backs of pompous visiting nobles who would talk at Uther and the court for hours and hours, wrinkling her nose, rolling her eyes, sticking out her tongue, so that Morgana coughed and laughed into her elbows, avoiding Uther’s disapproving glares.
By the time Merlin came to Camelot and everything began to change, Morgana and Gwen were inseparable. Morgana had never been so grateful for someone’s friendship, never been so glad to know someone. Gwen made the lonely, strict court of Camelot bearable. Morgana told her everything. She even told Gwen about the smothering, overpowering fear that consumed her the most, in those days: that one day Uther would have her married off to some horrible noble man whom Morgana could not stand, and she would never be able to stand any of them, because she was not attracted to men and never had been. Her heart, when she longed, longed for women alone.
She conveyed this in stumbling, awkward whispers to Gwen one night as they sat by the fire in Morgana’s chambers. Morgana was trembling a little from the telling; she had spent all that dinner smiling and making pleasant conversation to a visiting prince, and she was shaken by it, sick to her stomach with fear over a future that would not be hers to control. (That fear has long since faded, now that she is entirely in control of her own life, but then it had been persistent and unbearable.) Morgana does not remember exactly what she said: something about fearing marriage, not because it might be bad, but because it could only be bad, because she did not want to marry a man, ever, but did not know how to escape it.
Gwen had listened silently, looking into the fire. She turned her head sometimes, and was very still at others, so still that Morgana was terrified that Gwen would run from her chambers and tell someone about the crazy things that the Lady Morgana was saying. But Gwen didn’t do that. She listened and looked into the fire and when Morgana, overcome, finally stopped talking, unable to explain herself any further, Gwen met Morgana’s gaze at last and nodded.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I'll help you however I can. It’ll be all right.”
Tears came to Morgana’s eyes that she could not blink away. “You don’t think I’m mad?”
“Of course not.” Gwen’s face, always so open and warm-hearted, showed her emotions as easily as a still pool shows the sky’s reflection. She took Morgana’s hands in her own, clasped them. “I sometimes—well, I sometimes know what you mean.” She squeezed Morgana’s hands and looked away, awkward, clearing her throat. “Not quite the same, of course, it’s not as if I will be forced to marry someone because I’m a princess, or almost-princess, but....”
“You know what I mean?” Somehow Morgana had never expected that possibility. “When I say that—that I...?”
“Yes.” Gwen looked at Morgana once more, worried at her bottom lip. Took a breath. “I do.”
And gently, sweetly, she leaned towards Morgana and pressed their mouths together, just for a moment.
Morgana had not moved. Her whole body flushed hot like a sword plunged into a blacksmith’s furnace. Gwen pulled away after that initial moment, flustered, muttering apologies—it was not her place, she was so sorry, so on and so forth—and Morgana could feel herself blushing, the blood rushing to her face and her ears. She thought that she might fall over. She thought that she might throw up.
“No,” she said when Gwen tried to pull away, to untangle their hands; “no, it’s all right.” Blushing furiously. “I liked it.”
“You did?” Gwen sounded breathless, too.
“Yes.” This time Morgana kissed Gwen, and they kissed for a long time, still holding hands, as the fire burned low. When they pulled apart they looked at each other through their eyelashes, smiling, sheepish, happy. When Gwen left a little while after that, she lingered at the door for a moment, plucking nervously at her sleeves, and then darted up to kiss the corner of Morgana’s mouth before curtsying and departing. Morgana pressed her hand to her lips, smiling, her heart racing, feeling, for what felt like the first time, truly happy: understood and seen.
They snuck kisses in the alcoves of the castle corridors, in the lesser-used hallways that only the servants ever tread. They held hands when they could get away with it, which was often: no one ever thought twice about two girls, even a lady and her maid, holding hands in the corridors, on their way to tournaments, on walks in the gardens outside the castle. They stayed up late giggling, talking about everything together, or almost everything. The subject of Morgana’s nightmares, as they grew more prevalent and painful, became one of the few topics that they avoided, though Gwen diligently retrieved potions from Gaius to help Morgana sleep.
But of course, it could not last. Nothing ever did. Morgana’s nightmares worsened, and soon the fact of her magic, the growing power of it, was unavoidable. She had to face it, and so she did. And in doing so she turned her back on everything else. Including Gwen.
At the time it had made sense. It had felt like Morgana’s only choice. Should anyone find out about her magic, she would be exiled. But then Merlin knew, and he said nothing. That had kept Morgana up at night, though she never expressed it. What if I did tell Gwen? she wondered. Would she turn on Morgana, the way Morgana feared she would? But she never gave Gwen the chance one way or the other. She was too scared. And, though she hated to say it, she had other things to worry about, bigger things: Uther chief among them. So Morgana turned her back. And her quiet love with Gwen, their tender romance, ended as did so many other things, painfully, clumsily.
How was I supposed to know? Morgana thinks. How was I supposed to know that, if made ruler of Camelot, the first thing that Gwen would do would be to make magic free once more?
But Morgana could have asked Gwen. Could have told her. Could have confided in her all those years ago, and maybe things could have been different. Just a little.
But she never did.
It takes her several days to find Mordred. Seriously injured after the battle at Camlann but still alive, he had parted ways from Morgana when she pursued Merlin and Arthur to Avalon. Mordred went to find the druids, his people, and recover among them. He had extended to Morgana an invitation to join him if she needed somewhere to hide, though his offer had been obviously offered out of a sense of duty rather than genuine concern for her wellbeing. But Morgana is not looking for someplace to hide, not really. More than anything else she wants to watch Mordred’s reaction, the druids’ reactions, when they find out that Arthur is no longer king and that magic is free in Camelot.
Perhaps seeing their reactions will help her make sense of her own. Morgana does not know what she feels—whether she even feels at all. All she can think about is the way that Gwen had smiled when she told Morgana about repealing the magic ban. The way that her mouth had twisted like a knife. The way that her eyes had been amused and hurt at the same time: the burden of rectifying Camelot’s sins had been laid on Gwen’s shoulders by Arthur, the heir and arbiter of those sins, and he had washed his hands of the affair, leaving Gwen to right his wrongs and pay penance for something that she had not caused.
It is too much to think about, for too many reasons. Morgana is torn between fury at Uther and fury at Arthur and fury at herself, torn between grief and shock and resentment and vindication that doesn’t even feel sweet, it feels bitter, it feels rough like a stone. She keeps cutting herself on the edges of all that she’s feeling, sharp and uneven and incomprehensible.
Arthur was always better than her at putting his feelings aside: at repressing them, making them numb. Morgana has never envied him that tendency until now. At least before when it hurt, it made sense; before when it hurt, it reminded her of all that she had left to do. Now it hurts and she doesn’t know why. Now it hurts and she wonders if she ever understood any of this, or if she just thought that she did. If maybe she was wrong all along.
The druids conceal themselves exceptionally well. Morgana, whose power has grown a great deal in the past few years, still would not have been able to find them had Mordred not extended his invitation to her. That is usually the way it is, with the druids; they cannot be found unless they want to be. Or at least, if one of them wants to be. Their strength has historically been founded upon their unified solidarity against all outside forces. An enviable unity, yet also a lonely one, too.
A sentry confronts Morgana as she approaches the valley where the druids of Mordred’s fellowship currently reside. The woman recognizes Morgana instantly, points her spear at her.
“Mordred invited me,” Morgana says. “I’m not here to cause trouble. In fact, I bring news from Camelot.”
The sentry eyes Morgana warily. “Whether you intend it or not, trouble always seems to follow you, High Priestess. I won’t keep you from passing. But the hospitality of the druids is not inexhaustible.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever made the mistake of thinking that,” Morgana says lightly. The sentry scowls but withdraws her spear and lets Morgana pass without rising to her bait.
The small village in the valley has a temporary, hasty look, yet one that is gracefully lived-in. It is a home despite the druids’ tendency to pack up their things, dismantle their houses, and move every few months, leaving behind nothing to suggest that a mere few days ago a community of several hundred people had been living there. It is midafternoon, and the small community is bustling with everyday activity: women hanging laundry to dry; children laughing and running through the trees and around the houses made of cloth, like tents; serious-expressioned young adults peering over each other’s shoulders at books of spells. Morgana dismounts her horse, leaves it with the druids’ horses grazing on the outskirts of the village, and searches for Mordred.
Finding him does not take long. He must have sensed her as soon as she reached the village, if not earlier. He speaks to her telepathically, mind-to-mind, their thoughts touching like the wings of moths, leaving residue of their ephemeral thought-dust behind. —Morgana?
—Yes, it’s me. Where are you?
Mordred mentally guides her through the rows of tent-homes to the one where he currently resides. Morgana ducks her head and pushes aside the flap of the entrance to the small residence. Inside, Mordred is sitting up and attempting, with the use of an oak staff to bear his weight, to get to his feet.
“Don’t,” Morgana says aloud. “If it pains you.”
“It does. But the pain is lessening, surely enough.” But Mordred does sit once more, winded, and rests the staff against the edge of his bed.
“You’re all right?”
“Alive. It will be a while, though, before I have the full use of myself again.” He shifts his weight and presses his hand to his side, where Arthur’s blade pierced him. A mirror image of the wound that he dealt to Arthur.
“Arthur lives, as well.” Better to tell him quickly.
Mordred’s hand stills over his bandages. “He does?” But his voice is flat, unsurprised.
“You suspected as much, I see.”
“Well...I wasn’t able to make sure I finished the job, before I had other things to worry about.” Mordred gestures at his bandaged torso, then grips his staff again. “He made it to Avalon?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” The bones of Mordred’s hand stand out against his skin when his grip tightens. Morgana can feel the confused jumble of this thoughts, just for a moment, a tormented disarray, before Mordred remembers himself and withdraws from their mental connection, shuts the open thought-door on her. “What will you do now?”
“Nothing,” Morgana says. “Arthur is no longer king.”
Mordred’s hand slips. “What?”
“He made it to Avalon and was healed there. But you remember what some have said—that he’s the once and future king, the king before and after. It seems there was more truth to that than we knew. The powers in Avalon, whatever they are, gave him a choice: he could return in a millennium’s time to be the king of Camelot, or he could return now, if he gave up his right to the throne.” Morgana shrugs and smiles. It feels unnatural on her face. “He chose the latter.”
Mordred is frowning, the expression turning his face severe, older than he should be. He looks at Morgana, then looks down at his hands, at the bandages around his middle. He presses one palm flat against his stomach. “I don’t know if I believe you.”
“I was as shocked as you are, believe me. But it’s the truth.”
Mordred’s voice fails itself. “Why did he do it?”
“You won’t believe me when I say this, either. But he did it for Merlin.”
“Merlin?” Mordred’s mouth twists. “My god. And Arthur doesn’t even know—he has no idea that Emrys—” He laughs a sharp laugh.
“He knows. Merlin told him. He told him before they reached Avalon.”
This is, apparently, too much for Mordred. He stares at Morgana in shocked silence. His jaw works minutely. He clenches and unclenches his hands.
“Trust me,” Morgana says, her voice dry; “I know.”
“You don’t know what I’m feeling.” Mordred’s jaw is so tense that his mouth barely moves.
“Oh, I don’t?”
“No.” He meets her gaze, defiant and angry. “We are not the same.”
For all that he has power, has vision, Mordred is still almost unbearably young, and his petulance often proves it. “Fine,” Morgana says. “In any case, there’s more. Arthur has abdicated the throne to Gwen. She’s the sole ruler of Camelot. The whole kingdom should know soon, if they don’t already. And Gwen has already made her first decree. She’s repealed the magic ban in Camelot.”
When Mordred finally speaks, he does so in a whisper. “Now you tease me.”
“Not at all. Gwen has made magic free in Camelot again, and then she let me walk free from the castle dungeons. How else could I know all this and stand here before you? I speak the truth. We failed to kill Arthur, but we succeeded in this much. We’ve brought magic back to Camelot.”
Mordred shakes his head, though it seems more for his own benefit than Morgana’s. His voice is hoarse. “We had nothing to do with it. We didn’t do anything at all.”
“If that’s how you want to be about it.” Morgana is irritated with Mordred, his self-defeatism, the way that he will no longer meet her eyes, like he wishes her gone. He came to her, hadn’t he, after Arthur had Kara killed? “Shall I tell the others, or will you?”
“I’ll do it.” Mordred gets to his feet with less unsteadiness this time. “I suspected you would come, if you survived encountering Emrys. I’ve had a tent set up for you. You can wait there.”
His tone implies that he doesn’t care whether she does. That he rather wishes she had not survived her encounter and come here after all. He shows her to the small tent and leaves her there. Before he departs, Morgana asks, “Have you heard anything from Aithusa?”
“No,” Mordred says. Then he limps away, using his staff as a crutch, and goes to tell the rest of the druids the news.
vi.
A few days after Gwen inherited the throne of Camelot, Arthur is woken by the sound of furious knocking on the front door of Gaius’s chambers. “That’s for you,” Merlin mutters, rolling over in bed and putting his pillow over his ears.
“There’s no way you can know that.”
“Yes, well, I’m not your servant anymore, and Gaius isn’t here, and people have probably figured out this is where you’re hiding, so I’ll bet you anything it is for you, and I’m not answering it, so you’d better go do it.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Yes,” Merlin says, “of course not. That’s why yesterday when we saw Gwaine and Percival you grabbed me by the arm and begged me to cast a spell to make you invisible so you could get away before they saw you. Obviously you aren’t hiding or avoiding them. It’s all just been a clever ruse. For what, I have no idea, probably because it’s all so clever.”
Despite his annoyance, Arthur is charmed. “For someone so sleepy you’re very talkative.”
More knocking, louder now. “Will you please.” Merlin looks at Arthur, and despite the lucidity of his speech, his gaze is bleary and exhausted. He looks upset, or something else rather like it.
Arthur gives in. There was only ever so long that he would be able to avoid this, anyway. “Alright, sleeping beauty.” He ducks when Merlin hurls the pillow at his head.
Arthur dresses and leaves Merlin’s room, shutting the door behind him, and, with great trepidation, goes to the front door and opens it a crack.
“Sire?”
Gwaine, Percival, and Leon look back at Arthur, wide-eyed, concerned. Arthur sighs and closes his eyes, just for a moment. This is, he can already tell, going to be a very difficult conversation.
“Yes.” He opens the door. “Come on in, then. You deserve some answers.”
They bustle inside, Gwaine and Percival tripping over their questions, Leon just watching Arthur silently, too perceptive for Arthur’s liking. But Leon has always known him best. Arthur claps Leon on the shoulder and gestures for the three of them to sit. The explanations will take quite a while.
He tells them everything, nearly everything, as best he can. Gwaine asks many questions, interrupting Arthur at what feels like every other sentence, but Arthur can tell that his distress comes from genuine concern. Percival frowns and looks between Gwaine and Arthur twitchily. Leon is still, patient, enduring. His gaze, every now and then, flicks to the door to Merlin’s room.
Merlin and Arthur started their—well, whatever it is that they are together, the two of them—the year before Arthur became king. They have always, Arthur thought, been good at keeping their secret hidden. Yet he remembers Gwen’s reaction when she heard of Arthur’s choice; he notices the direction of Leon’s gaze, now. Perhaps not as well kept a secret as he thought. His face grows hot, but he soldiers on in the telling. He is not ashamed. If there is anyone to whom he owes that particular truth, it is Gwen, not the knights.
Yet: still.
Near the end of the explanation, Merlin, dressed, his hair still sleep-mussed, exits his room and sits beside Arthur at the table, nodding at the others. His shoulder knocks against Arthur’s. Their thighs touch.
When Arthur’s explanation ends, the five of them sit in silence, looking at each other. Merlin is grim, tired. The knights mostly still look confused.
“So—you’re really no longer king?” Gwaine asks. “We thought—well, I thought, the others said it was stupid—”
“It was.”
“As if this makes any more sense.” Gwaine pauses. “Sorry, Arthur.” Merlin snorts. “Anyway, I thought maybe it was some sort of ploy, to trick Morgana into, I don’t know, complacency. It isn’t, though?”
Arthur shakes his head. “It’s no ploy. Gwen is really the sole ruler of Camelot.”
“That part I got,” Gwaine says. “That part there’s no problem with.”
“Really?”
“Of course not.” Leon meets Arthur’s eyes. There is a flicker of semi-defiance there, and embarrassment, and deep, decades-old loyalty. “We’re loyal to you, sire, but we’re loyal to her, as well.”
“Not ‘sire,’” Merlin murmurs. He glances at Leon. They both half-smile, sharing the same sense of awkward, misplaced deference, a compliant loyalty that they have no place, any longer, to set down.
Arthur presses his knee against Merlin’s. “Well, good. Gwen will be glad to know that, I think.”
“What will you do, Arthur?” Leon asks. “Now that you aren’t...king.”
Arthur shrugs. “I’m not sure.”
“He didn’t think that far ahead,” Merlin says, half-amused, half-pained. The others laugh.
“And....” Percival looks at Gwaine and Leon. “You’re all right, then, with Gwen repealing the magic ban?”
Arthur looks at Merlin. Merlin drums his fingers against the tabletop, not looking back.
“Yeah,” Arthur says quietly. “I should have done it a long time ago. It should have been the first thing I did when I became king.”
Merlin’s expression does not change. His hand twitches, though; the pattern of his drumming becomes, for a moment, uneven.
“There’s one more thing, I guess,” Arthur says. “Though it’s not really mine to say. Merlin?” Merlin shrugs. A quiet acquiescence. Let them know. All right then. “Merlin has magic. He’s a sorcerer.”
A long moment’s silence. The knights look at each other.
“We can see that,” Leon says.
When Arthur frowns, Leon inclines his head towards Merlin’s hands. Arthur, who had been preoccupied with the slant and line of them, the way they move, looks closer now and sees that, as Merlin’s fingertips strike the table’s surface, tiny flares of luminescence, purple and green, flash at each contact, bursting like raindrops.
Merlin snatches back his hand as if burned. Arthur can feel his shoulders tense.
“It’s all right.” Arthur he is not quite sure why he says it, whom he is reassuring. “It’s all right now.”
“It is,” Gwaine echoes. He is looking at Merlin. The moment is tense, long. Merlin does no looking of his own. It must be hard, to reveal a secret that you spent a decade keeping. Harder still, in its own way, to find out that, perhaps, you need not have kept it so well.
Leon hesitates. “There’s one other thing. Richard—one of the knights on jail duty these past few days—he told me Morgana was in the cells.”
“Yes.”
Merlin doesn't look up. “'Was?’”
“He said Gwen let Morgana go last night,” Leon says. “Unlocked the cell and told her to walk out of the city.” Arthur and Merlin stare at each other. “Did Gwen tell you about that, sir? Arthur?”
“No,” Arthur says. “She didn’t. I’ll...ask her about it later.”
The awkwardness of that. What right does he, Arthur Pendragon, title-less, have to interrogate Gwen about the choices that she makes as queen? He gave up the throne, and he wanted her to have it. Somehow he had naively assumed that he would agree with all of her decisions—that she would only make decisions of which he approved.
“I’ll ask her,” he repeats. “For now....” Trailing off, unsure. The knights, sensing his hesitance and the potential for another uncomfortable conversation that no one really wants to have, get to their feet.
“I’ll stop by your training later,” Arthur tells them as they leave. “And...thank you.” For understanding, at least as much as understanding is possible.
Percival nods, stops himself from bowing. Leon meets Arthur’s gaze and mirrors the gesture that Arthur had greeted him with earlier, that touch on the shoulder.
Gwaine, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, holds back when the other two leave. “I’m glad you’re all right—both of you. When I went after Morgana—it was stupid, I shouldn’t have done it. Percival came with me, but it was my idea. And Morgana found out where you were going because of what I told her.” Gwaine swallows. Somberness is not an expression that rests easy on his features. “It could have been disastrous. I’m sorry, sire. Arthur.”
Arthur holds out his hand. Gwaine, after a moment, does the same. The two of them clasp each other’s forearms. “You’re my brother,” Arthur says. “I know you did what you thought was right. Don’t dwell on the what-ifs.”
Gwaine ducks his head, nods. His gaze meets Merlin’s—seeking, there, some sort of answer that Arthur, it appears, cannot give him.
“It’s all right, Gwaine,” Merlin says. “And—” He hesitates. He is tapping the table again, that nervous energy, those flares of light sparking at his fingertips. He notices and stops at once. “Thank you.”
Now Gwaine grins, relieved if still uncomfortable. “Always, Merlin.” He leaves, closing the door behind him.
Arthur stands there for a moment, looking at the doorway. When he turns around, he sees that Merlin has gotten to his feet and paced the length of the room. He is clenching and unclenching his hands, his shoulders hunched.
“Merlin?”
“I didn’t realize I was doing it.” Merlin turns and crosses the length of the room again. “My hands, when I—”
“Didn’t you say that happened sometimes? That magic would just happen?”
“Never like that! Never—” Merlin turns, his hands fists. Spots of red blotch his face. “Never around you. Not like that.”
Merlin’s distress, though Arthur does not understand it, is undeniable. Arthur takes a few steps so that he stands before Merlin and then, gently, takes Merlin’s hands in his own. “It’s all right.”
Slowly, Merlin relaxes. His shoulders fall. “It’s never been like that.” He looks close to tears. Arthur marvels at him. It has never been easy for Arthur, ever, to be so vulnerable, to cry in someone else’s presence. Merlin has never been like him that way.
“If that had happened before,” Merlin whispers, “you’d have had me hanged.”
Now Arthur’s hands are the ones to flinch. “I wouldn’t’ve.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Merlin looks at him. His eyes, glassed with tears, search Arthur’s. Then Merlin withdraws his hands and scrubs at his face. He says, shakily, “Lancelot knew.”
“What?”
“Lancelot. About my magic.”
“You....” Arthur stops and watches Merlin, who sets out bowls on the table, not looking at him. “He never said anything.”
Merlin laughs, pained. “Obviously.”
“How long?”
“The whole time. Almost from the start. Aside from Gaius, Lancelot was the only one who ever....” Merlin stops moving the bowls and sits slowly in a chair by the table. After a moment he puts his face in his hands.
Arthur wants to go to him and can’t. He is torn between relief that Merlin was not alone this entire time, not utterly isolated by his secret, and bitter envy that Merlin told Lancelot and not him, that Lancelot knew something that Arthur never did.
And whose fault was that? Not Merlin’s, not Lancelot’s. But it’s how Arthur feels. He watches Merlin compose himself, not knowing how to comfort Merlin for a hurt that he created. Arthur fills a kettle and sets it on the fire to warm, then stands before it, looking at it, because it is somewhere to look that will not cause offense. After a long moment, Merlin lowers his hands.
“Are you hungry?” Arthur asks.
“Yeah.”
They set about making breakfast together, not talking much, moving comfortably in their shared space. Arthur hands things to Merlin before he can ask for them, neither of them saying a word.
vii.
Morgana stays with the druids for several weeks, nearly a month. It’s somewhere to be, and she is not yet sure where else to go. Mordred’s dutifully-offered hospitality, though chilly, remains unrevoked, and Morgana passes her days among the druids without conflict, though most of them avoid her. It appears few of them, if any, approve of her past methods, though she is less clear on whether they approved of her goals. No matter.
She spends her time gathering herself, recouping her composure. Though she does not speak to the druids very much, she hears some of their conversations as she goes about her days. Mostly they talk about Arthur, and what it means now that he is no longer king, now that magic is free and Gwen is queen. In the years of his reign, Arthur had attempted to show some measure of friendliness and acceptance towards the druids; never to the point that he accepted magic, of course, which meant that he could never fully accept the druids, who live in harmony with magic and the vast majority of whom are magic users. But for years they have been navigating the difficult situation of reentering a society that had once wholly rejected them and which is now apparently willing to receive them into its fold. Questions remain. Should the druids trust Camelot, even under the leadership of its new queen, who is seemingly so different from Arthur? Is it worth it to renew relations with both the crown and the people who threatened them for so long? Might the druids not just continue to live as they have been: isolated, alone, but sheltered from judgmental eyes and minds?
But life alone in the wild, separated from the rest of Camelot, is much harder than many assume. The druids have mastered it, this lonely nomadic lifestyle, and yet even so many of them die from sickness or hunger in times of scarcity. A new era in Camelot—if genuine—would improve their lives immeasurably.
If genuine. If the new queen of Camelot truly means what she says. If Gwen will stand by her promise to make life free and safe for all.
Trust me, Morgana thinks to tell the druids when she hears them muttering in hushed reveries—she means it. If Morgana knows Gwen at all, and she does, then she knows that much. But she doesn’t bother telling any of them. None would believe her, nor welcome her opinion. They would probably try to find some way to blame the longevity of the magic ban on her, as if she hasn’t spend the last half decade fighting against it while they hid in the trees and whispered.
How many people with magic are left in Camelot, after all these long years of Uther’s rule, then Arthur’s? There must be some, more than Arthur might think. Stamping out something so intrinsic has always been a losing gambit. In the past five years, Morgana has encountered magic users in the most unlikely places: small-village witches who use their talents to tend the sick and deliver babies; warlocks with some measure of power who hardly realize it and use their gifts to plow fields and keep wells running clear. She has met enchanters who work as blacksmiths and whisper spells into the weapons they forge to keep them sharp and into the horseshoes to keep them from rusting. She has met hex wizards who live alone in the woods after being driven out of the villages that they lived in their whole lives, until Uther passed his laws, and she has met charmers with almost no skill at all, except in spring they can touch a flower and make it bloom faster, or bring water over a fire to boiling in half the time that it usually takes. Morgana has been disdainful of these people and awed by them. Their small concerns have both disgusted and fascinated her, made her derisive and envious in equal measure. She could never be content with living the lives that they lead. But sometimes she wishes she could be.
A week ago magic had not been free in Camelot. A week ago she was still Morgan le fay, Morgana the fey. The Morrígan, battle-crow. Now what is she?
She doesn’t know.
There is a woman who brings Morgana her meals but never speaks to her. As far as Morgana understands, the druids hold hospitality in high honor: hence her small private tent, the food provided for her, and Mordred’s invitation in the first place. The druids treat Morgana coldly, but even their dispassion and apparent lack of personal regard for her is not enough to overcome that hospitable ideal that they hold almost sacred.
But not sacred enough, it seems, to extend to conversation. The woman, whose name Morgana does not know, slips her hand inside the flap of Morgana’s tent, waits a moment, then enters. Morgana thinks that the druids use their mindspeech to request entry to each other’s homes among themselves, but no one here but Mordred has spoken to her mind-to-mind these past few weeks, and even he has not done so since that first day. The pause between the woman’s hand and the rest of her entering is, as far as Morgana can tell, a compromise between courtesy—letting Morgana have the chance to refuse the woman entry—and the disdain that keeps the woman from speaking to Morgana at all, aloud or otherwise.
This time, when the woman puts her hand in Morgana’s tent to signal her arrival, Morgana says, “Come in,” and is shocked to realize, as the woman ducks her head and enters the small tent, that she wishes, desperately, for conversation. For some sort of acknowledgement. For connection, she thinks, and then pretends that she hasn’t, because that is not who she is. She is Morgana Pendragon, High Priestess of the Old Religion, and she is strongest when alone; she doesn’t need anyone, not anymore.
But still. A conversation might be nice.
“What’s your name?” Morgana asks.
The woman pauses setting down a bowl of stew and looks at Morgana, her expression indecipherable. “Rohesia.”
“I’m Morgana.”
“Yes, I know.” She turns to leave.
“You never speak to me,” Morgana presses. “No one does, yet you always bring me food anyway. Why don’t you say anything?”
Rohesia turns and considers Morgana again, still inscrutable. She shorter than Morgana by a head and a half, her skin a dark warm brown, her long hair pulled into a messy braid over her shoulder. But she stands unintimidated, her hands on her hips, her eyes the color of flint. “If I stopped to speak to you, you would treat me like a serving girl, and I am not a serving girl. Even if I were, I wouldn’t deserve to be treated so poorly by you. I bring you food because you're our guest, and we take care of our guests. But I reserve my conversation, great or small, with those I call my friends.”
“How do you make your friends, if you do not first talk to them?”
Rohesia smiles. “Perhaps I’m not looking to make new friends.”
“Nor am I,” Morgana says.
“Then we return to where we started.” Rohesia inclines her head and turns to leave. “Good day, Morgana Pendragon.”
Morgana crosses the small tent in three quick strides and then stands there startled by her own impulsiveness, unsure of what she meant to do. “Tell me true. I know the hospitality of the druids is great, but I sense that even so I am testing your patience to its limit. Is that so?”
Rohesia considers Morgana, her eyes glittering. “Yes.”
Morgana had asked her to tell true. “I see.”
Rohesia does not turn away this time, waiting for Morgana to continue as she must so obviously want to do. Morgana burns with shame and then feels it, just as quickly, turn into something cold, something hard. “I mean no offense,” she says.
“You rarely do, I expect. Yet intention matters little. If you really want me to speak true, then I shall. You have made a mockery of what it means to be a sorcerer. Yes, Uther’s reign was cruel,” says Rohesia, speaking over Morgana’s indignant spluttering, “and his son’s was hardly better. I criticize not your goals—your intent, if you will—but rather your methods. You bent magic users, strong and weak, from all over Albion to your will or crushed them utterly if they did not bend. You waged a war so uniquely destructive that entire swaths of the countryside are still recovering, and will spend years doing so. You didn’t care about the people you used as tools—you had as little regard for them as you did for the king upon his throne. Actually, you cared for them even less. At least you offered Arthur the dignity of his personhood; at least in hating him you acknowledged his existence as your equal. When did the men and women who died in your name ever receive as much from you? Even Mordred, the strongest sorcerer among us here, was lesser in your eyes, even when he gave you Emrys’s true-name. You are not like Mordred, to your immense discredit—and you are not like Emrys, either.”
“Emrys!” It is all that Morgana can manage to say for a few terrible moments, in which she struggles for air and her mental footing. “He spent a decade as Arthur’s servant—he did nothing but stand by while Uther and Arthur crushed all other magic users beneath their heels and kept them there by threat of death, by noose or sword or worse! Merlin didn’t care about anyone else so long as he was well cared-for and well fed in the castle at Camelot, where he could watch from the window and eat strawberries and pudding as men and women were hanged in the courtyard gallows!”
“And you, Morgana,” Rohesia says quietly. “What have you done for those men, those women, those sorcerers whose blood made the streets of Camelot run red? The passageways of your own stronghold ran with that same color.”
Morgana, dumbstruck, says nothing.
“And you tell us now that Arthur Pendragon has renounced his kingship. Not because of anything you did, through none of the violence with which you tried to end his reign, but because of his love for Merlin Emrys, and the nobility that Emrys always saw in him and learned how to unlock from Uther’s shackles and set free. Unlike your own shackles, which keep you bound though you call yourself free.”
Morgana remembers what Merlin had said to her in the dungeons—that one day she would have to learn to blame herself for her own failings, not Uther. She is so angry, so full of hatred for the man who was her father that she feels sick with it. She finds her voice. “You may go, Rohesia.”
“There’s the arrogance.” Rohesia’s voice is an almost-whisper. “You deign to turn me away like a serving girl when you were the one who asked me to speak. Very well.” She ducks her head through the tent’s opening. Before she walks away, she pauses. “You have no idea how safe we keep you here, do you?”
With great scorn, she lets the tent flap fall. Morgana catches it midair and follows her outside. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Rohesia does not answer. After a moment, she takes a turn among the sprawl of trees and tents and disappears from sight.
Morgana turns in the opening of her tent and looks at the bowl of stew that Rohesia left. It had been steaming when Rohesia arrived, but is no longer. Morgana stares at it, angry and embarrassed and sick, and then turns on her heel and strides away, towards Mordred’s tent. —Mordred!
She feels the mental wince of his mind as her thought strikes him. —There’s no need to shout.
—Where are you?
—Here. Mordred sends her a few images, mind-to-mind, and then severs their connection as brutally as slamming a door. Morgana realizes that her hands are trembling with the force of her anger. She makes them still before she continues to the place that Mordred indicated, a small copse of blackthorns just outside the druids’ ring of tents.
Mordred sits in a hollowed-out space beneath one of the low, thorny trees. The branches have been carefully pruned away from this spot, leaving a place large enough for one person to sit upright without touching any of the branches. If that person were to lean any direction but forward, they would inevitably catch themselves and their clothing on the small sharp thorns. Mordred sits here, his hands on his knees, his head bowed, his shoulders and spine straight. His staff rests at his side, and above him the huddled blackthorns hold their court in full, stunning bloom, covered with thousands of delicate white flowers gilded with pollen.
Mordred does not open his eyes as Morgana approaches him, nor does he acknowledge her. He sits motionless beneath the shade of the trees, dappled with the late evening sunlight. The bandages around his torso, Morgana notes, are stained through in some places with blood. She says his name aloud and in the mindspeech.
“You should not bring your anger to this place,” Mordred says, and that is all. Morgana bites her tongue to keep from answering him. She looks instead at the trees, and the flowers turning orange in the setting sun, and the wind making patterns of the leaves. The anger drains from her, slowly, as it always has.
Finally Mordred exhales and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. He fumbles for his staff and uses it, laboriously, to get to his feet.
“Are you still in pain?” Morgana asks.
“Less of it.”
Yes, then. “I might try my hand at mending your wounds.” Her words come clumsily. She is thinking of Rohesia telling her that she is nothing like Mordred: that even after Mordred came and gave her Merlin, still Morgana had not respected him.
The look that Mordred gives Morgana is darkly amused. “I hadn’t thought you a healing witch.”
“I didn’t say I would do a good job.” Morgana allows dry humor to enter her tone. This apparently surprises Mordred again, and again pleasantly so. Morgana is surprised at how warm it feels to be the source of that.
“Our respective talents for healing magic aside,” Mordred says—and Morgana notes his choice of pronoun, notes it well— “the pain is endurable, and so I’m content to let it be. Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” Morgana says, and then decides, “no. I was speaking to Rohesia, and she said something I didn’t understand. She said I have no idea how safe you’ve been keeping me here. What did she mean?”
Mordred, who had been smiling, is no longer. “She shouldn’t have said that.”
“But she did, and there’s no taking it back.” Morgana watches Mordred, who turns back to face the blackthorns and leans against his staff, avoiding her gaze. “Mordred, just tell me.”
He does not answer for a long while. Finally, he faces her. “I would have told you. Had it been more serious—had the threat increased—”
“What threat?” Morgana’s voice rises. She does not know why she is so scared. Arthur isn’t king; magic is free in Camelot, and Morgana is a High Priestess of the Old Religion, strong in magic even if she is not unmatched, is not Merlin. There should be little left now that can frighten her.
Mordred speaks slowly, as if he has to force the words through syrup. “There was a gathering. Magic users from across Albion, druid and non-druid, of all kinds of powers and strengths. Some of the druids here went to it.”
“Not you?”
“I didn’t know about it.” A half-answer. He corrects to the full one. “Even if I had known and had the strength to go, I wouldn’t have. Still, it happened, and the magic users met, and now....” Mordred shrugs. “They go to Camelot.”
Fear makes Morgana’s hands start to tingle. “Why?”
“Not all for one reason. Some are looking for Arthur, of course.” Mordred watches for Morgana’s reaction. She gives him none. “And some for you. They don’t know you’ve been here with us. That’s what Rohesia meant.”
“But....” Morgana struggles for clarity. “Why? I don’t understand.”
“Their reasons for going after Arthur are simple enough. As for you, well—you didn’t exactly make life any easier for other sorcerers these past five years. Some of them hold a grudge.”
Morgana imagines a force of magic users marching on Camelot. Even weak ones, unskilled and untrained, could do a great deal of damage with enough numbers and conviction. It is what she had tried for five years to achieve—unity among magic users, so they could take Camelot by force. And now they march—now that magic is free and Arthur is king no more.
“What will they do?” Morgana asks.
Mordred looks away. For a long time Morgana thinks that he simply will not answer. She feels fear and anger wrestle inside her, just as they always have.
Finally, Mordred says quietly: “I don’t know.”
Morgana stands still, attempting to master herself. When she cannot, she turns abruptly on her heel and strides away.
She hears Mordred, startled, limp after her. “Morgana!” He soon matches her pace, though he is breathing hard. “Where are you going?”
Morgana glances at him. “You said I shouldn’t bring my anger there.”
“You—? Oh.” Mordred glances back at the blackthorns, then catches Morgana by the elbow and turns her around. “It’s not a sacred place. It’s just beautiful, is all.” He looks back at the trees, which blaze white-gold in the last light of the day, their trunks already dark with dusk. Then he shakes his head and turns away. “Where are you going?”
“It’s me they’re after. If they want to find me, fine: there’s much I’d like to say to them as well. But they shouldn’t attack Camelot for it.”
They shouldn’t attack Gwen is what Morgana really means, and she is shocked to realize it. Mordred looks baffled by her sudden concern for the city and kingdom that for so long she had rallied against. Things change, Morgana thinks bitterly. Mordred is clever enough to figure that out for himself, if he puts his mind to it. She doesn’t have time for explanations.
“If they go to Camelot and don’t find me there,” she says, “what do you think they'll do?”
Mordred looks at her for a long moment. His eyes are sad, and old: older, Morgana suddenly realizes, than she has ever seen him look, yet this is what has been in him this whole time. She just never saw it. “They’ll come here.”
“So they should find me in Camelot first.”
“Morgana—”
“It’s all right, Mordred. Your hospitality, while much appreciated, is beginning to wear thin, what with everyone avoiding me.” She means it as a thank you—sort of. She means it as a snipe. She has no idea how Mordred takes it, though his face, she notes, goes pink.
By the time that night has fully set, she is on a horse on her way back to Camelot. She gives herself no time to think.
viii.
Not being king, Arthur soon discovers, is a much more difficult business than he anticipated.
It is the not-doing that baffles him. He had thought that would be the easiest part: simply not going to council meetings anymore, not training the knights (not really, not officially, although he’s been going to nearly all their training sessions these past few weeks because there is little else that he knows to do with himself), not staying up late to scrawl responses to the missives he receives from the leaders of neighboring kingdoms, not ordering Merlin about, not holding court, not going through the kingdom records of current crop yields and tariffs and tax rates and oh, could you solve this dispute I’m having with my neighbor over a chicken, please and thank you? None of that. Not being king, Arthur had thought, would be simple: an inaction, rather than an action.
Inaction, he realizes, still takes some doing.
When left to his own devices, Arthur always used to sleep late—hence why Merlin had to wake him nearly every morning all these long years. But now Arthur finds himself waking earlier each day, as if his body is trying to remind him of the kingly things that it used to do, as if by waking early it can trick him back into doing them. He wakes and is confused, one day out of three, as to where he is and why he isn’t in his chambers—but of course they aren’t his chambers anymore, they’re Gwen’s. And once awake, there is nothing for Arthur to do. He could help Gaius, but Merlin has already thrown himself into that pursuit and Arthur doesn’t have the heart to interfere, not when he has already shaken Merlin’s life so dramatically. Arthur tries to do nothing—really, truly nothing, just sit in Gaius’s rooms and think or sit in the courtyard and watch the people go by, but he grows restless in a span of a few minutes. Besides, if he goes outside there’s a high chance that someone he knows, or a citizen who recognizes him, will corner him and ask him questions that he does not want to answer. There is only so much to do, in Gaius’s rooms. Arthur reads a little, but finds the medical texts numbingly boring and the magical ones utterly indecipherable. He cleans, but there isn’t much to clean with Merlin around, and besides, Arthur isn’t very good at it; he mostly just sweeps dirt into corners and puts napkins over spills. If he could be sure that no one would recognize him he would go to the tavern and drink; but of course he can’t be sure of that, and so he doesn’t go.
He finds himself longing, in quiet moments where his own thoughts catch him by surprise, for Morgana. She of all people knows what it's like to have been royalty, or almost-royalty, and to suddenly be that no longer. And she is the last of his family left.
Not that Arthur ever had a large family. Uther, of course; Ygraine, whom Arthur only knows from other people’s memories and a single portrait, which he kept in a locked chest in his quarters (and which still sits there, up in the castle, impossibly out of reach). Agravaine, for whatever good he had been. And then Morgana—now only Morgana.
Arthur has no idea where she has gone. He does not ask about her, but he knows that Merlin stays alert for news of her, wherever she may be. Arthur hasn’t asked Merlin about her yet; they have not spoken of Morgana at all.
They have spoken of Gwen a little. Arthur has seen her a handful of times these past few weeks, always when others were around, Merlin or some knights or a court advisor or a servant or two, and so he hasn’t had the chance to talk to her privately since the night he returned to Camelot. He gets the sense that she is avoiding him. Which is only fair, and it’s her choice. Arthur won’t force her to do otherwise if it isn’t what she wants. But he misses her very much. He wonders how she is adjusting, how she’s doing. He doesn’t have the right to ask.
“Tell me,” Arthur says to Merlin one day, “that language you use sometimes for spells—what is it?”
He has spent the past few hours watching Merlin tidy the main room. Merlin organizes the bottles on the shelves by name and type, inventories Gaius’s medical supplies and notes which ones to restock, goes through Gaius’s books to see whether any patients need potions delivered that day and who needs to be followed up with to check whether their symptoms have improved. Gaius hasn’t been round all day, so Arthur can only assume that he’s busier than usual with his work, and Merlin, ever-helpful, ever the diligent assistant—though Arthur would have, before, been loath to ever admit that aloud—has been doing his part to ensure that when Gaius returns, he won’t have any additional work left here awaiting him.
Where Arthur can, without getting too much in Merlin’s way and mucking things up, he has helped Merlin with these tasks, following Merlin’s spoken and gestured instructions. But mostly Arthur has watched Merlin, and intently, too, because every now and then Merlin will cast a spell, do some small bit of magic. Arthur has been searching for every one of these moments and doing an inventory of his own: all these things that he has missed in these past years, every moment of Merlin’s practiced magic, big or small. Merlin does not use magic often for these chores, whether because Arthur is there or for some other reason, but every now and then he will mutter something and the bottles along one shelf will line themselves up properly, or he will gesture and a book will fall open to the page that he’s looking for, or he will be engrossed with something, his focus elsewhere, and the magic will come out of him in ways that, Arthur thinks, he is not consciously controlling. Like the sparks flashing at his fingertips every now and then—though Merlin tends to notice these now, and stops them happening—or his water glass nudging itself into his grasp when he reaches for it without looking, his nose in a book, or his quill dancing a little in its pot of ink after Merlin has turned his back on it.
Small things like that. Harmless things. Wonderful, quiet, beautiful things.
When Arthur asks his question, Merlin is only half-paying attention, and half-turns his head to him. “Sorry?”
“Your spells. What language is that?”
“Oh.” Merlin spends another moment with the book and then sets it aside. “It’s the language of the Old Religion. I’m not quite sure what its name is, really, or whether it has one. Although I’m sure it must.” He frowns, looking lost for a moment.
“That’s the language of all spells, then?”
“Hm? Oh, yes. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I don’t really know. It’s not as if I had anyone around to teach me aside from Gaius, and nearly all his books were burned when Uther first outlawed sorcery.”
“Right,” Arthur says. “Sorry.”
Merlin twitches his fingers at him, looks down at his book again. “Don’t,” he says, but he doesn’t specify what. He stares at nothing for a moment, lost in his thoughts, and Arthur watches him.
“You said not all spells need words,” Arthur says. “But some do?”
“More complicated ones. Words can make the magic stronger, if they’re the right ones. The tricky bit is finding the right ones, though.”
“What do you mean?” Arthur knows that pushing Merlin on this could be dangerous—it might not work as he expects, might make Merlin push back against him rather than share his knowledge on this forbidden thing that Arthur, for so long, forbade. But from what Merlin has said of magic already, Arthur thinks—suspects—maybe hopes—that Merlin wants to talk about it, desperately; just as he wants to do magic, freely and openly, for little things, big things, meaningless things, wonderful things, and yet still prevents himself from doing so, at least in Arthur’s presence. But the magic remembers itself, understands itself, is true to itself. The way it is escaping out of Merlin lately can surely be no accident.
Or it is. What, really, does Arthur know about it at all?
Merlin looks at him. His hands still seem restless, but absently so. “The words are the magic, in a way. But it’s not just these words. You can cast a spell in any language. Watch—light,” Merlin says, looking at the candle by his elbow. A small spark flares on the wick, orange-gold. Merlin’s eyes briefly match its color. The candle wavers and goes out. “But it’s harder. Magic is easier with the old language because so many sorcerers for so many years have used those words to do these spells.” Merlin says a word that Arthur does not understand, and the candle re-ignites with a flame three inches tall, yellow-white and blinding. Merlin waves his hand and the flame disappears. “The words themselves remember the magic.”
Arthur stares at the candle, purple spots standing out in his vision where the flame had been. “And they amplify it?”
“Sort of. It depends on the power of the user and the type of spell. Words help translate the sorcerer’s intent. But sometimes things get lost or changed in translation.”
“I thought you said it was easier to cast spells with words than without them.”
“Yes, and easier to cast a spell that’s not quite what you wanted, if you use the wrong words. Like I said, the words themselves remember, and they have their own power. They know the spells they’ve been used for before, and that’s what they’re most likely to try to do when you say them. The weight of all that history is hard to avoid. If that’s the same as what you want to happen, then it’s all right, but sometimes it isn’t. I think that’s how most sorcerers do magic, anyway. With words. Translations of intent, translations of translations.”
“But not you?”
Merlin looks away. He seems uncomfortable, somehow: embarrassed. “Not as often. At least, I don’t think so. Sometimes all that means is I use the words in a different way, or say them differently than they’ve ever been said before. New patterns. New spells. Sometimes it means not using words at all. But I’ve never....” He trails off for a moment. “I’ve never met anyone who used the old language as little as I do. Mordred was the closest, actually, which I always thought was strange. He’s a druid, and knows far more of the old language than I do. Maybe that helped him, because he knew better when he wouldn’t want to use it and when he would.” Merlin shrugs.
Arthur studies Merlin’s face, fascinated and not trying to hide it. All this time, he thinks. All this time, I never knew. “There’s no one else like you. Is there, Merlin?”
Merlin laughs, awkward, pained. “I don’t know. Not...not anyone I’ve ever met.”
I use it only for you, Arthur. And what a waste, a terrible waste, a cruel waste, a waste that is Arthur’s fault. Look at you, Arthur wants to say: my god, Merlin, look what you can do, all the good you did do even when magic was forbidden and you lived your life in secrecy. You’ve done more good than I know how to quantify. I don’t even know where to begin. Gwen was right to lift the magic ban, but it shouldn’t have been her who did it. And the others, Percival and Leon and Gwaine—when they learned you had magic, they didn’t even stop to blink. It’s not that they expected it, not that they don’t have their own prejudices my father and I taught them. It’s because it was you who was the sorcerer, you who had magic: and because it was you, they accepted it at once.
And all this time, you’ve been alone. Both the secret, and the secret-keeper.
“Merlin....” Arthur does not know what he means to say, only that he must say it.
But Merlin doesn’t let him. “Don’t. Please.”
“Okay.” Arthur watches him flip open Gaius’s records-keeping book again and start matching potions to it. “Is it strange having the others know?”
“A little.” Merlin hesitates. “I wasn’t sure how they’d take it.”
“It seems like they took it pretty well.”
Merlin shrugs, makes a small amused sound. “Better than you did, anyway.” Before Arthur can say anything, Merlin changes the subject. “Do you really not know what you’re going to do now?”
“Not the faintest idea.” But Arthur does have a few ideas, all very murky and Merlin-focused.
“Well.” Merlin is making notes in Gaius’s records again, though seemingly not paying much attention to it. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. And it seems to me, really, that you’re going to need someplace to stay.”
“That seems very likely.”
“And it’s all right with me,” says Merlin, “if you want to stay here. With me. With Gaius and me, I mean.”
Arthur leans into the table, propping his chin in his hands. “That’s very generous of you.”
“It is.” Merlin seems flustered—and not, Arthur thinks, by the compliment. “I’d have to ask Gaius if it’s all right, of course, they’re his chambers really, not mine, but I don’t think he’ll say no.”
“Me either.”
Merlin’s ears are turning pink, and Arthur is having a wonderful time watching them do so. “I know the bed is small for two, but I was thinking—I mean, it might be possible, you know, some sort of way to make the pallet more comfortable, or something like that—”
Arthur takes Merlin’s hand. “I don’t mind the small bed.”
“Oh.” Merlin looks down at their hands, Arthur’s resting atop his own. “Okay. Good.”
Arthur squeezes Merlin’s hand, once. Merlin looks back up at him. Their eyes meet.
“Okay,” Merlin says, a breath. Arthur waits, unsure, but not for long, because Merlin leans in and kisses him. Arthur, ever quick on the uptake, kisses him back. He lets his hands go where they want to, to the nape of Merlin’s neck, the slide of his shoulders, his fingers parting strands of dark hair. Merlin leans into his touch, levering his torso against the corner of the table that separates their chairs, when his elbow suddenly slips. The inkwell wobbles onto the floor.
“Oh,” Arthur says, pulling back to deal with that situation, but Merlin says, “No, it’s all right,” and crooks his fingers at the spill. The ink slides back into its well, which rights itself by Merlin’s foot.
Arthur, smiling, says, “Now you’re just showing off.”
“Ink is expensive.”
“Mm hm.” Arthur slides his hands down Merlin’s sides, his waist, and gently—firmly—pulls Merlin out of his chair, around the table’s corner, and into his lap.
Merlin exhales, still kissing Arthur. His hands touch Arthur’s face, the line of his jaw. One slides down to press against Arthur’s collarbone. “Maybe not for the king of Camelot.” Merlin goes still. “Former king.”
Arthur can hear Merlin swallow. Arthur closes his eyes and presses his mouth to Merlin’s neck, feels the pulse in his throat. “It’s all right.”
Merlin nods. His hands pull at the fabric of Arthur’s tunic, lightly, absently. “Yeah.” He falls into himself a little, presses his forehead against Arthur’s. “Yeah.”
Arthur looks at him. It’s hard to see anything this close, not clearly, not in any way but that too-close almost-detail that happens when you’re so close to someone else that you can touch noses, touch mouths. What you see, at that distance, are impressions, haze: suggestion. Arthur looks at the shadow of Merlin’s lashes, the blur of his nose, the muscles moving in his eyelids, the slide of his bottom lip beneath his teeth. He slips one hand beneath Merlin’s shirt and presses his palm flat against Merlin’s skin. A question.
Merlin opens his eyes and looks at Arthur looking at him. He nods so minutely that the only reason Arthur notices is because their foreheads are pressed together. An answer.
Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin and stands, taking Merlin with him. Merlin snorts a laugh and presses his face in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder. “I’ve got legs,” he says, wrapping them around Arthur’s waist.
“Yes,” Arthur says, “and I’ve got arms.”
“You very much do.” Merlin frames Arthur’s face with his hands and kisses him. Arthur, already off-center from bearing Merlin’s weight, nearly topples backwards when Merlin deepens the kiss dizzyingly. Merlin laughs again, sounding truly happy for the first time since Camlann. Since before Camlann. Now that Arthur really thinks about it, he can’t remember the last time he saw Merlin genuinely happy.
Definitely something to think about, to try to fix. Later, though. Right now Arthur can think of little else but Merlin’s hands, his thighs, his shoulder blades. Staggering a little, though he would never admit it—not that he needs to, judging by how Merlin is laughing—Arthur makes it to Merlin’s room and pushes the door open with his foot.
“Steady now,” teases Merlin.
“Piss off.”
Arthur feels Merlin grin against his face. “Really, you should be careful. You might strain something.”
Arthur dumps Merlin onto the bed with much less romantic grandeur than he’d imagined. “I’ll make you sprain something."
Merlin just laughs harder. “Please,” he says breathlessly. “Do.”
Arthur climbs onto the narrow bed and pins Merlin down, kissing him. Merlin arches upwards, his hands pulling at Arthur’s waist, his hips. His breath comes quick and erratic. Behind them, something thumps shut.
Arthur breaks the kiss. “What was that?”
“Um.” Merlin looks. “The door.”
“Oh.” Arthur squints up at the window, which is closed. He looks down at Merlin.
Merlin’s face is going red. “I think that was me.”
“Really?” Arthur leans back, fascinated. “I’ll admit, this has definite possibility.”
“Oh, don’t.” Merlin covers his face with his hands. “God, don’t say that, I’m not ready to think about that.”
“Meaning you haven’t until now?” Arthur lowers himself to start kissing the side of Merlin’s neck. “That seems unlikely.”
“Mmph.” Merlin muffles the sound with the back of his hand. He twists as Arthur scrapes his teeth over his skin, then sucks a kiss above his collarbone, breaking capillaries. “Don’t.”
Arthur stops, breathes against Merlin’s skin. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t....” Merlin wriggles beneath him and exhales, slowly. “Make fun of me.”
Arthur sits up. “I wasn’t.”
“Of course not.”
“If anything, I was making fun of myself.”
“I don’t see how.”
“I....” Arthur doesn’t know how to explain. “I should have seen it sooner.”
“Stop.” Merlin covers his face. “You have to stop saying that, or I’ll—” He cuts himself off with another abrupt exhalation. “You weren’t supposed to notice. I did everything in my power, every single day, to keep you from noticing. That was the whole point. It has nothing to do with what you should or shouldn’t have noticed. If you had noticed, that would have meant that many, many things had gone very horribly wrong.”
Arthur leans back, straddling Merlin, who stares very deliberately at the ceiling and not at Arthur. “Okay. You’re right. I swear I don’t make this all about me when I’m thinking about it in my head. It’s when I start saying things out loud that I get into trouble.”
“That’s the truest thing you’ve ever said,” says Merlin. Arthur grabs the pillow and pretends to smother him with it. Merlin flails beneath it, his laughter muffled by the fabric and feathers. Then Arthur’s hands go suddenly rigid, paralyzed, and Merlin pushes the pillow away. His eyes fade from gold to blue. The paralysis lifts.
“You could overpower me whenever you wanted to, couldn’t you?” Arthur asks him. “With a thought you could.”
Merlin, meeting Arthur’s gaze this time, not looking away, nods.
“You don’t act like it. You never did.”
“The day we met, I did. I thought I was really something. Didn’t last long, though.”
Arthur looks down at Merlin, studying his face. He touches Merlin’s shoulders, his arms, then trails his hands down and finally entwines them with Merlin’s. “Why not?”
“Uther, mostly. Back then anyway. Gaius too, for different reasons. He taught me so much. But a lot of it then was fear of Uther finding out.”
“But not always.”
“No.” Merlin runs his hands over Arthur’s waist, his thighs. “Can we not talk about this now?”
“Sure, if you’re all right.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “I should ask you that.” His right hand brushes over the front of Arthur’s trousers, between his legs, and makes Arthur’s breath hitch.
Arthur closes his eyes. “Cheeky.”
“Yeah.” Merlin presses his hand against Arthur’s crotch. Arthur moves into the touch, just barely. “You can’t tell me off for that anymore, though.”
“That’s true.” Arthur sucks in a breath when Merlin’s hand shifts. “I always liked it more than I let on, anyway.”
“Figures.” Merlin takes Arthur’s hands again and pulls him down, so they are mouth to mouth. “So did I.”
“Really?” Breath ghosts in the shared space between them.
“Yeah.” Merlin kisses him, and his arms go strong and sure around Arthur’s torso, hold him fast. Arthur exhales between kisses, breathes in, and Merlin arches up again beneath him, pressing their hips together. Arthur, braced on one elbow, pushes his hand against Merlin’s stomach, slips it beneath his shirt, touching skin, his fingers trailing upward. Merlin shivers, smiles, and presses his hand against the front of Arthur’s trousers again.
Arthur leans into his touch, thinking yes, thinking please, and almost saying both. Merlin touches Arthur’s thighs, exhaling. Arthur bends down to kiss him again, more slowly, more deeply, kissing with deliberate intent, a hidden joy. Merlin puts his arms around Arthur and holds him close, Arthur still straddling him, their bodies moving together.
“What do you want?” Arthur asks between breaths, sucking another bruise on the side of Merlin’s neck.
Merlin shivers again and shrugs, his hands moving over Arthur’s back. “I don’t care.”
“You—” Arthur huffs an annoyed breath. “No opinion, really?”
“That’s not....”
Arthur kisses him. “Shut up. Idiot. I know.” He presses Merlin into the bed by his shoulders, gentle and firm, and kisses him on the mouth once more for good measure. “Lie back, then.”
“Arthur—”
“Ah ah. You had your chance.” But Arthur meets Merlin’s gaze for a moment. “If you want me to stop, just say so.” Then he moves down Merlin’s body—pausing to push Merlin’s shirt up and kiss his stomach—and starts undoing the laces of his trousers.
Merlin’s breath hitches. “I didn’t say that.”
Arthur, having bested the laces, slides his hands over Merlin’s hipbones and digs his fingertips into muscle. “Good,” he says, and then pulls Merlin’s trousers down past his thighs. He leaves the rest of the undressing to Merlin and hooks Merlin’s right leg over his left shoulder, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the inside of Merlin’s legs.
Merlin, his ankles tangled in his trousers, his breath coming very fast, laughs shakily. His hand reaches for Arthur’s, finds it. Arthur’s other hand slides up Merlin’s leg, his groin, and wraps around the base of Merlin’s cock.
“Right,” Arthur says when Merlin gasps; “very good,” and he slips his mouth over the head of Merlin’s dick.
Merlin shifts beneath Arthur’s touch, still trying to kick off his trousers and gradually giving up on the prospect as Arthur becomes more intent on his ministrations. “Arthur,” Merlin says, “god—”
Arthur twists his hand, meets Merlin’s gaze. Merlin is flushed, sweaty. He makes a sound when Arthur looks at him, a broken and wonderful sound. His fingers tighten around Arthur’s own.
Arthur groans and closes his eyes, leans back, jerking Merlin off with his hand as he pauses to catch his breath. He squeezes Merlin hand and, gently, lets go. “Sorry,” he says—breathless now, too— “I just—I have to—” He shakes his head, smiling a little, and puts his hand between his legs to start stroking himself as he bends back to the task before him.
Finding a shared rhythm between the two of them is difficult. Arthur thumbs his own cock, kissing along the side of Merlin’s, and when he feels Merlin start to go tense, his legs beginning to shake, he releases himself and slides his arms under and around Merlin’s thighs, holding him close as he takes him fully in his mouth, as much as he can manage.
After a few trembling moments, Merlin reaches out and twists his hand in Arthur’s hair to let him know he’s close. Arthur, resolute, doesn’t pull away; and after a few more seconds Merlin comes, his legs quivering, his head thrown back, his hand pulling Arthur’s hair so much that it hurts for the briefest moment, then doesn’t anymore.
When Merlin stops shaking, Arthur pulls away, watching him, unable to look away. “Are you...?” Merlin starts to say, but Arthur shakes his head, already having resumed jerking himself off. He comes after four strokes, fast and breathless, his nose pressed against Merlin’s stomach. When he's finished Merlin pulls him close, side-by-side in the small bed, and kisses him.
Arthur has missed this so much. He’s missed Merlin, which should be absurd because Merlin is right here—he hasn’t gone anywhere. But things have been different since Avalon, and despite all that they’ve talked about it, or not talked about it, it doesn’t feel as if anything between them has been resolved.
“I missed this,” Arthur says, because why the fuck not—it’s true, and he means it, and Merlin deserves to hear it, to know that he is missed.
Merlin stills. “What?”
“You,” Arthur corrects. Best to be fully truthful if he’s going to make a fool out of himself.
“You miss me?” Merlin sounds bewildered. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“You have, though. I mean, it’s not the same.”
Merlin swallows. “I’m still the same person.”
“What?” Arthur looks at him. “Is that what you—god, I really couldn't say what I mean if my life depended on it.”
“I don’t....” Merlin trails off. “Having magic doesn’t mean I’m any different than who you’ve known all this time.”
“I know that.” God, does Arthur know it; how surely and thoroughly does he know it after these days of living alongside the knowledge, growing accustomed to it, setting out a plate for it at dinner as if the knowing of it is so world-altering that it deserves its own noncorporeal place at the table of Arthur’s mind. “I just meant you’ve gone into yourself. Or”—you’re in this deep, Christ, just say it—“pulled away from me, maybe. Or maybe I pulled away and didn’t realize it. I don’t know. But it’s been...different.”
Merlin does not look at him. His thumb brushes over Arthur’s shoulders absently, over and over. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, very quietly. “But I didn’t know what it would be like, or how else to be.” He shakes his head, as if to himself. “I spent a very, very long time not telling you everything. I don’t really know how to be, now that you know.”
Arthur looks at him. He wants to take Merlin’s face in his hands, kiss him gently. He settles for brushing his thumb over Merlin’s jaw, across his lower lip. “I want you to be you,” he says just as quietly. “That’s all.”
One of Merlin’s hands catches Arthur’s and holds on. For a moment Arthur thinks that Merlin will speak, but he doesn’t. Merlin just watches Arthur, holding onto him, blinking slowly, chasing away tears.
ix.
Morgana makes it to the city gates unhindered, and there finds herself immediately hindered. She could have disguised herself, as she did when she left the city, but she doesn’t. This used to be her home, a place that she loved; she won’t sneak in like a common thief.
Unfortunately she recognizes the knights guarding the gates instantly, and they recognize her as well. Morgana digs her heels into her horse’s sides, lifts her chin, and rides up to them nonetheless. Gwaine and Percival, both holding spears, cross their weapons in front of the opening of the gate. Inside the city, several passersby look curiously at what is going on and then hurriedly rush away.
“What are you doing here?” Gwaine is glowering at her.
“I need to speak to Gwen,” Morgana says.
“That’s Queen Guinevere to you.” Percival glances at Gwaine. “Go and get Merlin.”
“Perc—”
“She can’t make any trouble that Merlin can’t mend. I’ll be all right, just go.”
Gwaine looks between the two of them, frowning deeply, but he does as Percival says and heads into the city at a jog to find Merlin.
“You can’t keep me here,” Morgana says to Percival, amused and annoyed.
“I don’t intend to.”
“No?” Morgana flicks her hand, and Percival’s staff shatters into splinters. “Let me pass, then.”
Percival draws his sword. “A neat trick. Would you like to try it on iron instead?”
Morgana eyes the blade and says nothing. Wood is one thing: it has a grain, a tendency to split on its own. Iron is much more sure of itself and therefore much more difficult to work any magic against. Percival either knows that—though Morgana has no idea how he possibly could—or else he is guessing correctly. Both possibilities infuriate her. “I have news Gwen needs to hear. I intend to cause no harm.”
“Yet you will anyway, I expect,” Percival says, reminding Morgana irritatingly of Rohesia. Morgana clicks her tongue at her horse and navigates around Percival into the city. He follows her, and she ignores him.
She is loath to meet Merlin again. If she can reach the castle before Gwaine fetches him, and perhaps gain audience with Gwen before Merlin can stop her—
Gain audience with? Morgana turns the queenly turn of phrase away. She guides her horse through Camelot’s familiar streets, ignoring the people who stop and turn to stare at her as she passes. They glance between her and Percival, who still holds his sword, and then either go into their homes and bolt the doors or glare at her with open defiance. Morgana recognizes most of them. She lived here for over a decade, after all; for a long time these people were her neighbors and acquaintances, some of them her friends.
Ignoring the people watching her, annoyed at them and Percival both, she nudges her horse into a trot. Percival has to sheath his sword and jog to keep up. He does so without embarrassment, which only irritates Morgana further.
She reaches the castle courtyard and dismounts, glancing around to see whether Merlin and Gwaine are nearby; they aren’t. She tosses Percival her horse’s reins—let him deal with it—and takes the steps to the main entryway two at a time, the back of her neck prickling with the feeling of being watched. The knights on either side of the entry look between her and Percival, their hands going to the hilts on their swords. She passes them at a near-run, glad that she wore her simple riding gear and nothing with a great deal of skirts. When they try to grab her, she twists out of their reach, not even bothering with a spell—a little afraid of how they might react, what Merlin might do in response—and is hurrying through the castle hallways before they can stop her. She hears Percival shout something behind her, telling the guards to let her go, yelling for someone to find Merlin already, for god’s sake, where’s Gwaine, and then she turns a corner and then another and cannot hear him anymore, the heavy stone walls of the castle muffling all noise.
Her feet take her through the familiar hallways on the quickest route to the royal chambers. She passes a pair of chatting chambermaids, one of whom shouts and drops a basket of laundry as Morgana passes. The other stares. Morgana ignores them both, not breaking stride until she reaches the familiar heavy double-doors to the royal chambers, where she stops abruptly, out of breath. She is just down the hall from where she once resided as Uther’s ward. She doesn’t know what she means to say to Gwen when she sees her.
What have I done, she thinks. I’ve made a fool of myself, running all the way here—
The doors open from within. Standing there, first frowning and then looking at Morgana with unconcealed shock, is Gwen.
Morgana swallows. Her heart pounds. For a moment the two of them stare at each other without speaking. Gwen is dressed simply, her long hair pulled back, her eyes dark and tired. She looks unwell, as if she hasn’t been sleeping, and it takes her, in Morgana’s opinion, a moment too long to react.
Footsteps rapidly approach from the end of the corridor. Gwen leans against the doorframe, saying nothing. Finally she raises an eyebrow, and for some reason that small gesture fills Morgana with relief.
“I have to talk to you,” Morgana says.
“What did you do to the guards?”
“Nothing.” Gwen’s eyebrow rises further, which makes something in Morgana’s chest twist with sullen anger. “Percival let me pass.”
Gwen looks at Morgana steadily, still leaning against the doorframe as if she needs its support. “And Gwaine?”
Morgana looks back at her, and then—frustrated, angry, embarrassed—tears her gaze away. “Went to fetch Merlin.”
Gwen laughs. She half-turns so that Morgana can pass through the doorway. “Well, at least they did what I told them to do.” When Morgana stares at her, she shrugs. “You better come in before they get here.”
Morgana, stunned, does so.
The royal chambers—which had been Arthur’s for as long as Morgana can remember—look little changed from her memory. She glances around, searching for some sign of Gwen’s presence and seeing nearly none. A vase of flowers on the bedside table; a sword that Morgana recognizes as one of Gwen’s father’s, hanging above the fireplace without grandeur; a pair of women’s riding boots in the corner. For three years Gwen lived here with Arthur, and now she lives here alone: yet this is all that indicates that she’s ever even set foot in these rooms.
Many more of Arthur’s belongings remain—his clothes in the wardrobes, which Morgana can see through their half-open doors; his quills and books and inkwells. His furniture, his bed, his furnishings, his belongings: his rooms.
Gwen, still in the doorway, is speaking to someone else. “It’s all right. Find Gwaine and Merlin, but don’t bring them here. Merlin will know if I need him. It’s all right, Percival.”
Morgana cannot help but think, as she looks around the chambers, that it’s not all right at all.
Gwen shuts the door and faces Morgana. She says nothing for a moment, then crosses to the table, where she had apparently been eating dinner when Morgana arrived. “Wine?” she asks lightly. She pours a glassful without waiting for Morgana to answer and offers it to her.
“What did you mean when you said Percival and Gwaine did what you told them to? Did you know I was coming?”
Gwen sighs and puts down the ignored wineglass, then resumes eating her dinner. “If you mean whether I knew you were coming today, no. I had no idea. But I thought you might come back.” She pushes out the chair on the other side of the table with her foot. “Are you hungry? I could have Eleanor bring you supper.”
“Eleanor?”
“My maid. Well? I assume you’ve been riding all day.”
Morgana has no idea how to take that. “I’m not hungry,” she lies stiffly. She feels suddenly, horribly out of place: underdressed, underprepared, underhanded. She has no idea what to say or how to explain herself. It had seemed excruciatingly important that she speak to Gwen, but now, faced with the reality of it, Morgana finds that she can hardly speak.
“All right.” Gwen returns once more to her food. “Why are you here, Morgana?”
Her casual manner upsets Morgana—not emotionally, but in the sense of a boat that has capsized. She expected Gwen to have her thrown out, to refuse to speak to her, that she would have to somehow convince Gwen to listen to her. But here is Gwen, eating her dinner and talking with Morgana as if they do this every day: as if this is something they once did often, because it was, but as if all the years between then and now never happened.
But that's not quite right. For all that Gwen is calm, a hint of ice lies in her voice and her eyes: a cold anger that has not melted, that glints as if in sunlight.
Morgana clears her throat and paces across the room to put some distance between them. “I came to warn you.” Simple enough. Truthful enough.
Gwen sets down her fork and knife. “Warn me?”
“Magic users are marching on Camelot. They’ll be here within the week.” As she rode to Camelot, Morgana had investigated in small towns and villages for news of the magic users, and heard little: but heard that they were near, getting nearer.
“But....” Gwen looks down at her hands. “I don’t understand. Magic isn’t outlawed anymore. I have no quarrel with them. If they seek some other form of restitution—I mean, I would consider it, I have considered it—I'd do what I could. They don’t have to march on the city—” Gwen’s expression becomes grimmer. She goes to the window so she can look down into the courtyard, apparently forgetting all about her supper. “Do you know how many of them there are?”
“They aren’t coming for you or for Camelot, as far as I know. I don’t think they’ll cause harm to the city unprovoked—but I don’t know for sure. That’s why I wanted to warn you. I don’t know how many. It could be as few as a dozen or as many as a hundred, or more.”
Gwen turns and stares at Morgana, aghast. Morgana can tell that Gwen’s mind is racing through all the worst outcomes, imagining the city on fire, people running through the streets, or lying dead in them—
Morgana steps forward, stops herself. “Not all magic users are as powerful as Merlin.” She hates herself for saying it, but is unable to leave it unsaid. “Or even me, for that matter. Most of them are regular people leading regular lives. They’re angry, and have been for a long time, but they’re not unreasonable.”
Gwen huffs, and her expression slips into a smile. Morgana is shocked to realize that she’d laughed. “I never would have known it, extrapolating from you,” says Gwen.
Morgana is reminded, once more, of what Rohesia said. She thinks that she should be angry, furious—she has never been able to endure being teased. In fact, there had only ever been one person from whom she’d been able to stand it.
“Who are they coming for, then?” Gwen asks.
“What?”
“You said they’re not coming for me or Camelot. So why? Who else are they looking for?”
“Arthur,” says Morgana. Gwen’s face shows a flash of distress, of anguish, and then it passes as quickly as a storm cloud in summer. Morgana looks away, feeling anguish of her own, not knowing why. “And me."
Gwen frowns. “You? What on earth for?”
“Nothing important.”
Gwen, still frowning, studies Morgana’s face. “Why did you come here, if they’re looking for you? Won’t that bring them here?”
“They were already coming to Camelot. No one believes you let me walk free, and I’ve been hiding among the druids. They’d have gone to them next, if they didn’t find me here. Besides, Arthur is here. They want him first, I think. Then me.”
“What will they do to him?”
Morgana digs her teeth into her lower lip, welcoming the pain of it, anything to get her through this conversation. “Nothing. I don’t know what they’ll try to do, but they won’t be able to do any of it. Not if Merlin is with him.”
Gwen looks away. Her throat works. There’s that anguish again: better concealed, but impossible to hide completely. “Merlin is with him,” she says softly. “He always is.”
That had been true, as far as Morgana knows, for most of Gwen and Arthur’s marriage. She says nothing, not sure what she can say, certain that whatever she tries to say will only upset Gwen further. Why do you care? she thinks to herself—and then, as she has grown so accustomed to doing, she ignores that voice, which speaks with her own mind but as if from someone else’s heart.
“I just thought I should let you know.” It sounds useless, unhelpful. Morgana pushes onwards. “That’s why I came, and it’s done now. I won’t overstay my welcome.” She turns towards the door and then abruptly stops, remembering that Merlin is likely just outside waiting for her. She wants very badly not to see Merlin.
“You’re leaving?”
“There’s no reason to stay.” Morgana intends to linger in the woods near the city so she can be nearby when the magic users arrive, but that is as far as her plan goes.
“But they’re coming after you, as well. If you stay here, we can—”
Now Morgana laughs, though she knows she shouldn’t, knows that Gwen will only register it as cruel. “You can what—keep me safe?” She turns and faces Gwen, who stands tall, proud, her arms crossed, all traces of grief gone from her face, replaced with stubbornness, determination. That’s my girl, Morgana thinks.
“We could,” Gwen insists, not backing down an inch. “I could.”
Morgana wishes that she could pick apart Gwen’s thoughts, understand why she’s doing this. Sometimes Morgana can feel a flash of someone else’s emotions, especially if they also have magic and are fluent in the mindspeech. That flash is strongest at that initial moment when their thoughts touch. Sometimes she receives a similar flash even from people without magic, so long as they aren’t the sort of person whom magic simply bounces off of: as long as they aren’t insulators, rather than conductors, of magic. Arthur is an insulator, though Morgana doubts that he knows it—he is about as magically-tuned as a rock, or a sword. Morgana has never been able to feel any flashes from him even in passing. But then again, Arthur has a great deal of mental fortitude, a fortress within which he conceals himself—something he learned not from Uther, but in order to endure Uther.
When Morgana first came into her magic, she had sometimes, very weakly, gotten flashes of thought-feeling from Merlin. That weak kind of flash did not necessarily mean that he had magic, merely that he was not entirely un-magic, and so Morgana had thought nothing of it. Only later did she realize how enormously skilled Merlin must be at restraining his mental self from leaking magic of any sort, because she has not sensed any flashes from him at all since fleeing Camelot during Uther’s reign. Because Merlin is such a powerful sorcerer—so powerful that magic likely escapes from him without his controlling it—he must exercise an immense deal of restraint and will whenever he is around Morgana, so that their minds, their mental selves, never make contact, not even briefly.
Mordred’s thoughts seep sometimes, especially when Morgana first initiates mindspeech with him. He never used to block her out, or at least not intentionally; now he always does so, with an action like slamming the door on someone whom you don’t wish to see.
But Gwen is different. She’s not a magic user like Merlin or Mordred, and she’s not inherently resistant to magic in her essential nature the way that Arthur is. She is a non-magic user with a slight affinity for the magical, the way that most people in Albion are; and so sometimes, when her thoughts or emotions are intense, a nearby magic user might sense them in their underhearing, that undersensing that works in the same avenues of the self that the mindspeech uses when two magic users communicate telepathically. But there are no such flashes right now from Gwen, nothing that Morgana can sense. This is probably for the best; the underhearing that stronger sorcerers possess is essentially eavesdropping on someone’s innermost self. Morgana doesn’t want to do that to Gwen, doesn’t want to overhear the impressions and currents of her private thoughts.
If only she had any sort of idea of Gwen’s motivations.
So: “Why?” Morgana asks her. “You turned me out of Camelot only a few weeks ago and told me not to come back.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Morgana shrugs. “Near enough. I got the impression you didn’t want to see me again.”
It’s Gwen turn to shrug, and she does so, holding out her hands with ambivalence. “You came back to warn me about an unknown number of potentially dangerous magic users headed for the city I have to keep safe. It’s not like you came back to kill me and steal the throne. At least, not this time.”
Morgana looks away, attempting to master herself. If any magic user of substantial power were nearby, she thinks bitterly, they definitely would have gotten an earful of her thoughts in their underhearing just now. Then she remembers one is nearby—Merlin, probably just outside the door. She closes her eyes, counting the seconds between her breaths.
She can feel Gwen watching her. “Are you all right?”
“Just fine.” The words come through Morgana’s clenched teeth. “But I should go.”
“Stay,” says Gwen. “I insist.”
Morgana opens her eyes and looks at her. “I have no earthly idea why you would.”
“Neither do I.” Gwen sounds cheerful. “Maybe I’m simply not as unforgiving as you are.”
“You haven’t forgiven me.”
“Oh god, no,” says Gwen. “I just think it’d be better to have you where I can keep an eye on you.”
“There we go,” Morgana mutters.
She is amazed when Gwen laughs dryly. “If that’s the answer you wanted, then you’re welcome to it.” Gwen approaches the door to her chambers and Morgana makes an abortive motion, reflexively stepping towards her to stop her. Gwen raises her eyebrow again.
“I don’t....” Morgana doesn’t know what to say. Somehow, she can’t admit that she doesn’t want to see Merlin. Not aloud. Not yet. Gwen, however, seems to understand quickly. She says nothing, waiting Morgana out, her mouth quirking at the corners. Morgana sets her jaw. “Where will you keep me, if I am to stay here?”
“Your old chambers are still empty. Your things aren’t there, of course—Arthur had them moved.”
“I don’t care about my things.”
“I figured you didn’t, seeing as you left them behind so easily. I can order you not to be disturbed, but not everyone will listen to me.” Meaning, of course, two people in particular. “And I’d tell you to get your own food and linens, rather than have one of the servants bring you them, but I don’t know whether having you suddenly appear in the kitchen and laundry unannounced is the better option.” Gwen crosses her arms, one hand raised to tap thoughtfully at her chin.
“I don’t know whether you’re having a go at me or not,” Morgana says, “but either way I wish you’d just make up your mind.”
Gwen’s hand stops tapping. “The best part about being queen is that everything happens on my time now, and no one else’s.” A smile. “But I don’t really care either way. I’ll have Eleanor bring you some things, she’s discreet enough. I trust you remember the way?”
Morgana swallows. “I remember.”
“All right then.” Gwen opens the door and smiles at Morgana. “Like I said: everything on my time. It’s just as nice as I always thought it must be, when I was your maid, on your time.”
It is the first open acknowledgment of who they were before—that they were ever anything other than what they are now. That things between them have, irrevocably, changed. Morgana tries to leave without looking at Gwen, without touching her as she brushes past. But before she can escape the room, Merlin walks into it.
“Gwaine got me,” he says. “Gwen, are you all right? Percival said you weren’t letting anyone in—”
“I’m perfectly fine, Merlin,” Gwen says. Morgana notes discomfort between the two of them. Merlin and Gwen, too, used to be close, very close—Merlin was probably the person Gwen was closest to aside from Morgana once. They had both been servants then. They aren’t, now.
Merlin looks at Morgana distrustfully but says nothing. Outside, Gwaine and Percival stand on either side of the doorway, looking in.
“You can tell I haven’t cast any magic,” Morgana says to Merlin. “There’s no need to look at me like that.”
“Why haven’t you? Why are you here?”
“I’ll explain everything,” Gwen intercepts before Morgana can respond. “Just trust me, Merlin.”
They share a glance for a moment, wordless. Then Merlin looks away.
“Your chambers, then,” Gwen says to Morgana, who, gratefully, with relief, slips through the doorway and into the hall, retracing the familiar passageways to her old quarters. She feels the weight of Merlin’s gaze on her back until she rounds a corner, out of sight.
Her old rooms, when she reaches them, are dusty and bare. The door sticks, then bursts open against her hands with a great gust of effort, its hinges squealing. Morgana shoves it shut behind her and rests with her back against it, her breath coming too fast, her mouth dry, a noise in her ears like rushing water.
Not a single former possession of hers is in sight. Not her drapes, not her bed sheets and pillows, not her dresses and riding clothes in the wardrobes; not her jewelry passed down from her mother, Vivienne, or her precious collection of books from Gorlois. Morgana has not thought of either Vivienne or Gorlois in a long time. Not since Morgause died. Gorlois was more Morgana’s father than Uther ever was, for all that they did not share blood, for all that Morgana’s childhood memories of him are fading to the unrelenting press of time. She should like to find his books, if they’re still somewhere in the castle, and her mother’s jewelry.
She has no memories of Vivienne. She died when Morgana was only two years old. She and Arthur had always shared that—the loss of their mothers before either of them could ever know them. But Morgana had Gorlois; Arthur had only Uther. Morgana can remember, even when she was very young, feeling sorry for Arthur. When Gorlois died, Morgana still had the memory of him. Arthur had nothing, no one but Uther.
What sort of person was Vivienne? Morgana has often wondered. Vivienne married Gorlois, after all; he must have seen something beautiful in her, and she in him. But she conceived a child with Uther. Morgana knows nothing about their affair. Morgause had not known, either. Morgana doesn’t know whether the affair was mutual, whether Vivienne went to Uther willingly or if Uther somehow forced her, through physical strength or courtly manipulation, blackmail, extortion. Perhaps they cared for each other. Morgana, knowing what she does of Ygraine, doubts this. But she doubts, too, whether Uther ever truly loved Ygraine, either, or if he simply loved what she was to him: a beautiful wife, a model queen—and most importantly, someone to provide him with a son. Uther had been so desperate for an heir that he’d resorted to magic to force Arthur’s conception. Ygraine had died for Uther’s arrogance, his self-importance. Uther hadn’t wanted a son because he wanted to raise him, or to teach him, or to love him; he wanted a son so there would be a Pendragon on the throne of Camelot, a throne that he’d bought with blood and cruelty.
Why Vivienne? Why Ygraine? Morgana doesn’t know. Now that they are all dead, she can never know. Morgause had suspected that Vivienne possessed magic, which she passed on to Morgause and Morgana. If that is true, then Uther likely destroyed Vivienne’s life just as violently and horribly as he had Ygraine’s. Two women, two lives, two souls used and taken and wrung out and emptied for Uther’s vanity. Now Morgana and Arthur are all that is left of Vivienne and Ygraine. But Uther is left in them, too.
Morgana closes her eyes and tips her head back against the door. After a pause, a heartbeat, she steps away to more thoroughly investigate the rooms that had once been as familiar to her as the pattern of freckles on her own skin. Aside from the bed, a single chair by the fireplace (which is clean and empty of both fuel and ashes), a desk bare of even an old inkwell, and a threadbare rug that Morgana does not recognize, the room is empty. She tests the mattress, which has no linens, and pulls out the drawers of the desk. Aside from spider webs, there is nothing in them. She sighs and sits in the chair, looking into the dark fireplace, wondering why she is here, why she doesn’t leave.
But Gwen had asked her to stay.
Told her to, really. And Morgana does intend to speak to the magic users coming to Camelot. Gwen is right in that she may as well stay until they arrive. But being here after so long, after so much has happened—after all that she has done—leaves Morgana feeling horribly out of place. Feeling wrung out and emptied.
Although spring is well under way, the night is cold, and without a fire these quarters have always had a chill. Morgana remembers it well as she wraps herself in her riding cloak, deep in thought.
A knock on the door sometime later—she does not know how much later—disturbs her reverie. She stands, remembering what Gwen had said about not being able to keep Arthur and Merlin from coming to her. “Come in,” she says, and someone opens the door.
It is neither Arthur nor Merlin who enters but a small, young woman, probably not yet through her teens. She carries a basket of clean linens with a tray of supper balanced precariously atop it. Her hair is long, yellow-blonde, and hides most of her face as she quickly and wordlessly sets out the food and then puts the sheets and blankets on the bed. From the very bottom of the basket she produces an armful of wood, which she sets by the fire. Morgana, cold, stacks the wood in the fireplace and lights it with a muttered spell. When the maid—Eleanor, Morgana assumes—turns from the bed and sees the fire already roaring, she does not outwardly react, but Morgana can sense her tension in the way that she does not meet Morgana’s gaze.
“I’ll bring more wood before late evening,” Eleanor says, looking at her feet. “Do you need anything else?”
“No.” Morgana watches Eleanor gather the basket and head hurriedly towards the door. “Just—one thing.”
Eleanor, her hand on the door handle, stops.
“Gwen,” says Morgana. “Do you like her?”
Eleanor does not turn around. For a moment, she does not speak. “Very much,” she says at last, her voice soft, and then she leaves and closes the door firmly behind her.
What does it mean to be queen? Morgana doesn’t think she knows anymore. Doesn’t think she ever knew.
Dinner is simple enough fare: pheasant pie, gravy, mulled wine. Morgana sits and eats, surprised by her hunger and the intensity of her nostalgia. She wonders how many of the same cooks still work in the castle kitchens.
She has finished her food and stretched out in the hard chair by the fireplace with her feet on the hearth, sipping the last of her wine (which she has re-warmed with a spell), when someone else knocks at her door. Before she can answer, they push it open and enter the room. As she suspected, it’s Merlin. Unexpectedly, he has come alone.
“What are you doing here?” he demands. There is, Morgana notes with some amusement, a bruise on his neck that his scarf does not quite conceal.
She shifts in her chair and looks back into the dying fire. “Finishing my wine. Afterwards, I was thinking I’d go to bed.”
“Don’t play games, Morgana.”
“I wasn’t. Though if you’d like me to, we could start. Didn’t Gwen tell you why I was here?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t trust her?”
“I don’t trust you not to lie to her.”
“You think she wouldn’t know if I had? She has less reason to trust me than even you.”
Merlin says nothing. He stands motionless in the center of the room, watching her, silent.
Morgana sips her wine. “How's Arthur?”
“None of your business.”
Morgana shrugs. “Fine. I’m here for the reasons Gwen told you and nothing more. Magic users are coming to Camelot looking for Arthur and me. I intend to meet them here.”
“Gwen says you came to warn her.”
“I did.”
“Then why stay? She’s warned.”
“She asked me to.” Morgana crooks a smile at Merlin. “Trust me, I want to be here no more than you want to see me here, Merlin. You think it’s easy being in these rooms again?”
“You’re the one who made it hard,” says Merlin. “If you can’t stand it here, no one else is responsible for that.”
“Yes.” She looks back into the fire, thinking of Uther. She wishes Merlin had come with Arthur after all. “Yes.”
Merlin studies her for a long time. She ignores him, wrapping herself more tightly in her cloak and enjoying the warmth of the fire on her skin and the warmth of the wine in her mind. The druids were courteous enough, but they never offered her wine. She closes her eyes, settling deeper into her chair. It had been horribly uncomfortable at first, a hard-edged utilitarian thing, but she finds herself enjoying it more now.
After a moment she hears Merlin move about. A closet door opening, wood scraping across the floor, then silence. When she opens her eyes, Merlin is sitting in a chair beside her, looking into the fire, grim and tired.
“Where did you hear about these magic users?” he asks.
“Mordred told me.”
“He did?” Merlin cuts a glance at her. Morgana cannot read his reaction to Mordred’s name. She suspects it is a bewildering mix of affection and distrust, betrayal and guilt, no doubt as confusing to Merlin as it would be to anyone else looking in. She realizes suddenly that she is not guarding her thoughts: if Merlin spoke to her, mind-to-mind, he’d be able to read a great deal of her emotions through that touch. She does nothing about it—locks no mental doors, barricades no mental bunkers. Let him, if he tries. Somehow she doubts that he will. She doubts very much that Merlin is in the habit of touching other people’s minds at all.
“Mordred is well,” she says. “His wound is healing. More slowly than Arthur’s, of course.” She makes herself smile. “He uses his staff as a crutch, and he tires easily, but he'll make a full recovery in time.”
Merlin looks into the fire. He swallows.
Morgana watches him. “You're sorry for him. Aren’t you?”
Merlin says nothing.
“Do you remember when we saved him?” Morgana asks. “I couldn’t figure out why you did it. Why you helped him.”
Merlin leans towards the fire, his elbows on his knees. “I almost didn’t,” he says quietly. “Kilgharrah said that Mordred was destined to kill Arthur. That’s why I.... This past year, when Mordred was one of Arthur’s knights—I watched him. I obsessed over him. I couldn’t accept him, but I couldn’t kill him. So I pushed him away, pushed him right to you. Mordred wouldn’t have been to blame if Arthur died. I’d be the one who made Kilgharrah’s words come true.”
“Maybe.” Morgana is touched somehow by Merlin’s words. She recognizes herself in them. “Maybe not. Mordred told me before Camlann that he thought there was still good in Arthur. If you drove the wedge between them, then I’m the one who hammered it home.” Merlin looks at her, his brow furrowed. She shrugs. “I’ve had time these past few weeks to think on the things I’ve done.”
“And do you regret them?”
She looks back into the fire. “No.” She does not know whether it is the truth. “Uther began this. Someone had to finish it.”
Merlin snorts. “There you go again, using your hatred of him as a shield.”
“Not a shield. A whetstone. Did you really not hate him, Merlin? I can’t understand that.”
“Oh, I hated him.” Merlin’s voice has dropped in pitch, gone hoarse. “For what he did to Arthur. For what he did to Gwen. Even for what he did to you.”
“But not for what he did to you?”
“He did nothing to me,” Merlin says, “besides make me Arthur’s servant.”
“He made you live in secret.”
“I made myself live in secret.” Merlin gets up and puts more wood on the fire, nudging the logs with his hand and whispering something. The flames do not flare up as they might have had Morgana done the spell; instead they strengthen quietly, burn warmer and brighter without flash or fanfare. “I saw him, you know,” Merlin says suddenly. “A few months ago.”
Morgana, who had been watching the fire with interest, frowns. “Who?”
“Uther. Arthur summoned his spirit.”
Morgana stares at him.
Merlin smiles. “I know.” He shakes his head, settling back into his chair and still smiling to himself.
“How?”
“The Horn of Cathbhadh. I told him he shouldn’t, but he did anyway. He looked back at Uther before the door between worlds closed and Uther followed us to Camelot. He tried to kill Gwen, and me.”
This is too much for Morgana to take in. “Now I don’t know if I believe you.”
Merlin shrugs. “It happened.” He draws his legs onto his chair and wraps his arms around his knees.
Morgana stares at him for a long moment. If this is possible—and from what she knows of the Horn of Cathbhadh, it very well could be—then it does sound like the sort of thing that Uther’s spirit, returned to Camelot, would do. “What did he do to Gwen?”
“Knocked her unconscious, and tried to burn her alive in the kitchens.”
Morgana finds it hard to breathe. She looks into the fire and then has to look away, shuddering. She has sometimes wondered whether Uther deserved the intensity of hatred that she bore for him—that she still bears. Then she is reminded of all the ways that he has earned it. “How did she escape?”
“I got her out.”
“Is that why he tried to kill you, as well?”
“No,” Merlin says. “I stopped him from killing Arthur.”
Morgana can find nothing to say. At the expression on her face, Merlin adds, “I don’t know whether he would have really done it. But I didn’t want to find out.”
Morgana puts both hands around her wineglass, staring ahead into nothing for a moment. “I don’t have much faith that he wouldn’t have,” she says at last, very quietly.
Merlin watches at her. He, too, is quiet for a moment. “In any case,” he finally says, “when he attacked Arthur, I stopped him.”
“How?”
Merlin smiles. Morgana frowns, not understanding; then she sees the way the smile climbs across his face: slow, revelatory, triumphant. “How do you think?” he asks.
“My god.” Morgana shakes her head, warm and then cold with shock, with bitter delight. She, too, begins a slow gleeful smile. “My god, that is wonderful. What did he say? What did he do?”
“What could he do? He tried to kill me. But Arthur had the Horn. He sent Uther’s soul back to where it belongs.”
Morgana smiles wryly and drains the last of her wine. “Hell?”
Merlin laughs. “I wouldn’t know.”
Morgana shakes her head again and gets up to refill her glass. She pauses as she does, and half-turns to Merlin. For a brief moment she thinks of offering him a drink. Their eyes meet, and Morgana knows that Merlin knows, without magic, without underhearing, without pretense, exactly what she is thinking. She finishes pouring her own glass and returns to her chair, clearing her throat awkwardly.
“So Uther found out you have magic,” she says. “I can’t say that doesn’t make me happy to hear. Does Arthur know about any of this?”
“No.”
“You should tell him. He might like to know it.”
“I don’t know.” Merlin, previously amused, viciously jubilant, is once more pensive and tired. His arms tighten around his knees. “It was an awful thing, for Arthur to see that side of Uther like that.”
“He already knew of it. Trust me on that much, Merlin. We always dealt with that knowledge differently, as recent years have made obvious. But Arthur knew what Uther was. Maybe better than anyone.”
“Even better than you?”
Morgana tips her glass to the doorway of her chambers. “I was Uther’s ward, not his daughter. Not really. Arthur was Uther’s son. He never had any way of escaping that.” She pauses and looks into her wine, trying to gather the courage to say something else. It takes several long moments to muster the strength. “Did he say anything about me?”
“Uther?”
Morgana nods.
Merlin’s expression is unreadable. “No. I don’t know if that’s better or worse than if he had.”
Morgana, torn between disappointment and relief, almost laughs, almost cries. “Neither do I.”
They sit in silence for a long time. The fire burns low, down to embers. Morgana, sleepy from the warmth and the wine, finds herself drowsing in and out on the edge of sleep. She wouldn’t have thought that she’d ever do such a thing around Merlin, that she’d ever let down her guard so much. But everything is different now. Magic is free. They are, the two of them, exiles who are outcast no longer. Morgana had been physically exiled, externally cast out from her home. Merlin had been exiled within himself, an internal banishment, an insiling. Both of them are shaking free of the bindings that kept them restrained for years, kept them in hiding, kept them hidden.
Morgana shakes herself awake and squints at Merlin. He has not moved, is still holding his knees as he gazes into the fire. Morgana sighs and shifts, wrapping herself more tightly in her cloak and drifting into a doze.
She is shaken out of it when, sometime later, Merlin speaks. “Are they really coming for Arthur?”
She struggles to look at him. She really is very tired, so tired that she might have wondered whether Merlin cast a spell on her to make her pliable if she weren’t so certain in her belief that he would never do such a thing. Not even now. “Yes, for Arthur and me. Maybe they’ll want to talk to you as well. I don’t know very much about them.”
“What will they do?”
“I don’t know.”
Merlin swallows, not looking at her.
Morgana, suddenly sure of it, the knowledge waking her fully, says, “You don’t blame them for wanting retribution from him. That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you?”
Silence. Merlin’s arms tighten around his knees.
“You are.” Morgana watches him, trying to discern his thoughts or feelings and unable to do so. She even reaches out mentally, the way she might to initiate the mindspeech, but the immediate and total blankness that she senses from Merlin when she tries this tells her what she has suspected. Trying to read Merlin’s emotions this way will never work: he is too skilled at keeping himself hidden. So Morgana asks aloud the question that has puzzled her for months, ever since she learned what Merlin was. “Why didn’t you ever say anything, Merlin? Why didn’t you ever tell him?”
Merlin does not answer her.
“You wanted Arthur to be king. You dedicated your life to him—fine. But you also wanted Camelot to prosper. And you must have wanted magic to be free, or else what was the point of any of it? But for years—so long, Merlin! I don’t know how you could stand it. But even more than that, I don’t know why.”
Merlin is still for a long tremulous moment. Then he presses his forehead against his knees. His shoulders move up and down with his breath, controlled and even. For all that Morgana finds it hard to read his emotions, even she can tell that it takes a great deal of will for him to keep himself restrained right now.
“I wanted to.” He speaks so softly that Morgana has to strain to hear him. “I wanted magic to be free. But I didn’t know what to do. By the time Uther died and I could finally tell Arthur, it had already been so long. I didn’t know what he would do. If he reacted badly....” He shakes his head, not looking at her. “It could have ruined everything.”
Morgana watches him. He does not move, curled up in his chair, looking deceptively small. “You thought he would reject you.”
A pause. Merlin’s hands tense. For a long time she thinks that he will not admit it, not even now. But then he whispers: “Yes.”
Morgana knows well what it is like to have someone who once loved you now hate you. Merlin was so afraid of the people he loved hating him that he hid himself from them for years, a full decade of his life. Morgana was so afraid of it that she’d made sure that the people she loved hated her for other reasons, on her own terms. She doesn’t know which one of them made the better choice.
Stay, Gwen had said. And Morgana, unseated, wrong-footed, upended by that simple gesture of concern and sympathy, come from the least looked-for place, had.
“I was wrong,” she tells Merlin.
He shifts, turns his head to look at her. His eyes glitter in the faint light from the hearth.
“Arthur didn’t reject you,” she says. “He accepted you and your magic. I said before that he would never make a sacrifice for you the way you did for him. But that’s exactly what he’s done.”
Merlin looks at her for a long time. Finally he stretches, and gets to his feet. “Goodnight, Morgana,” he says.
“Goodnight, Merlin.” She watches him go. When he leaves he closes the door gently, so that it doesn’t make a sound.
x.
Arthur returns to the city that evening after taking his horse for a ride in the woods outside of Camelot. He and Llamrei, his bay mare, both know the woods around the city well, and there is a particular trail which Arthur favors that bears no risk of injury to Llamrei yet still allows them, in a few short places, to reach a canter. It’s a path that Arthur rode often while Uther was king. He’s had less cause to retreat to it in the past few years, but Llamrei remembers the way. She seems to enjoy the outing as much as Arthur does. He has had little chance to ride these past two months. It’s good to be outside again.
He returns to the stables at sunset and untacks Llamrei himself. This, at least, does not feel unusual. Even when Merlin was his servant, Arthur had preferred to do this himself. It’s not that he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, but Llamrei is one of his oldest companions—it feels only right to tend to her himself. Arthur removes her bridle and brushes her thoroughly, checks her hooves for rocks and dirt, brings her inside, and makes sure she has enough to eat. He did let Merlin muck out her stables before, though. Now Arthur has to do that himself. He does so, grumbling under his breath, paying no attention to the petrified stable hand who watches him from the other side of the stable. Then he gathers his things—including Excalibur, which he’d brought only because Merlin wanted him to—and returns to Gaius’s quarters.
He nearly runs into Merlin and Gwaine on their way out. Gwaine looks uneasy, startled; Merlin is silent and expressionless. He sees Arthur and appears to make several quick decisions at once, none of which apparently include telling Arthur what’s happening, or at least not freely.
“What’s going on?” Arthur asks. He isn’t wearing Excalibur; he’s carrying the scabbarded sword in his arms with his riding gear. He notices Merlin noticing this.
Gwaine looks at Merlin. The shift in the knights who know Merlin best—Gwaine, Percival, Leon, Elyan—still catches Arthur off guard. Before, Gwaine would have looked to Arthur for direction. Now he looks to Merlin. Arthur wonders if Merlin has noticed this, if he sees the way the knights who were comrades to him before are loyal to him now, as if they need, not quite to protect or serve him, but rather something almost in the middle. There’s friendship and love, and that’s not unfamiliar; but there’s another quality to it as well, something deeper, something more devoted. Something true.
They’d follow him, Arthur thinks. They follow Gwen and they won’t leave her, because they love her, too. But they would follow Merlin if he asked them to.
Merlin looks back at Gwaine but says nothing, not looking at Arthur. “Well?” Arthur says, impatient. “Is it anything worth worrying about, or can I go in and have a bath?”
Merlin steps aside, making room for Arthur to pass through the doorway. But apparently Gwaine, despite looking to Merlin for guidance, cannot stay silent anymore. “Morgana is here,” he says. “She’s demanding to speak to Gwen.”
Arthur stares at Merlin, feeling the way he does in a joust when someone manages, rarely, to unseat him. “Why didn’t you want me to know that? I’m not allowed to know Morgana’s here?”
“I don’t—” Merlin cuts himself off, tense and irritable. “I can handle it. I’m going to go handle it. Go in and wash up.”
It is both instruction and plea. Arthur can tell that much at least through Merlin’s often inscrutable, depthless reserve.
“Christ,” Arthur mutters—and remembers vividly, unexpectedly, Uther slapping him across the face for saying that when he was eleven. Morgana is a haze in the background of the memory, her eyes huge, her mouth a small line. “Go take care of it, then,” Arthur tells Merlin, more to shake himself free from memory’s grip than anything else, and he pushes past Merlin into Gaius’s quarters. He sees a glimpse of Gwaine’s expression—torn, unhappy—before he shuts the door on them both.
He dumps his riding gear in the middle of Merlin’s room and goes to draw a bath. It is, he has found, a long and tedious process when someone else isn’t doing it. And it’s never quite warm enough unless Merlin is around.
Damn him, anyway.
Only when he has sunk into the water up to his shoulders and shut his eyes tightly does Morgana’s return properly register with him. What the hell does she want? Why is she here? And what does she want with Gwen?
Arthur washes and dresses quickly, buckling Excalibur to his belt. These past few months have taught him that when Merlin says he can handle something, he means it. And there’s nothing Arthur can do, not really. If that’s what Merlin meant, why he wanted Arthur to stay here, out of Morgana’s way and out of trouble, then Arthur wishes Merlin could have just said that, unbearable as it would have been to hear, rather than not tell him anything at all.
But—still. Arthur wants to see her. And he wants to make sure that Gwen is all right. So he goes.
He expected more activity as he approached his old chambers. The hallways are empty, and Arthur hears nothing but the routine activity of various servants and maids going about their evening rituals. He pauses before the door, wondering whether he should knock, and decides that he probably must. He does so, twice.
“Come in.” Gwen sounds unbothered, steady. Arthur, wincing with the unfamiliar-familiarity of it—he has opened this door a thousand thousand times before, and never will that way again, not ever—turns the handle and enters the room.
Gwen sits at her desk, frowning at something that she has written. When she sees Arthur she stands abruptly and nearly overturns her inkwell. She catches it just before it spills. "Arthur,” she says. She seems to run out of words. Her dinner sits half-eaten and cold on the table where they shared hundreds of meals as husband and wife.
“What’s happened?” Arthur asks. If Morgana has been here, there is no sign. “Are you all right?”
Gwen’s mouth twists. “Yes, I’m all right. I suppose Merlin told you what's going on.”
“No, actually. He seemed bent on doing the opposite.”
Gwen smiles, but she looks sad. “I suppose he would be.” She sits once more and gestures for Arthur to do the same. She says nothing for a moment, and then, quickly, as if she needs to tell someone it, “I think Merlin thinks Morgana is his responsibility.”
Arthur sits in his old favorite chair without thinking about it, without realizing. “What? Why?”
“He is her,” Gwen says; “or rather, her if she had stayed. And she is him if he had left—left you, left Camelot, and more openly fought against all the things that have so badly hurt him and others. They resent each other, I think—they both disdain the other’s choice and wish they had made it. And Merlin....” Gwen shakes her head and stops.
Arthur frowns at her. “What?”
Gwen does not meet his gaze. He can see, with the long familiarity of the once-beloved, the way she bites her lower lip: that tell before she concedes a hard-to-hear truth. “He knew what Morgana intended to do for a long time before her betrayal.” She looks at Arthur now. “And so did I.”
Arthur, shocked, says nothing.
“How could I not?” says Gwen softly. “I was her maid—I knew her better than anyone else. Better even than you did. We....” She pauses again. “For all that Uther hated me, I don’t know what it was like to have magic and live under his rule. Morgana and Merlin share that. But Merlin thinks he could have stopped Morgana, I suspect—or swayed her from the path she chose. I used to think I could have done so, too. That maybe I should have tried.” She looks very far away—there is a distance in her eyes that Arthur cannot send messages across. “But he didn’t stop her. And despite all the harm that Morgana's done, it’s not as if she was wrong to lay the blame for so much suffering at Uther’s feet.”
Arthur tries to speak, cannot. He clears his throat. “And mine.”
Gwen looks at him unhappily. She says nothing.
“Christ,” Arthur mutters again, then wonders why he said it. He has known since before he came back from Avalon that he made a great many painful mistakes as king—painful not for him, but for the people of Camelot. Should he have stopped Morgana, forgiven her—should he have simply given her what she wanted, a Camelot free for all who lived in it? Would that have been the better choice?
Yet Morgana had killed Uther, or had him killed. She’d wanted Arthur dead. She’d wanted more than freedom from persecution. She’d wanted the throne, to do who-knew-what with. Still, Arthur thinks. Still, still.
What does she want now? He wants to ask her. He means to ask her, as soon as he can.
“What happened?” he asks Gwen. “What did Morgana say? Where is she?”
“She came to warn me. Or rather, warn you. She says there are magic users marching on Camelot, and they’re looking for you.”
He should feel afraid. He doesn’t. “Just looking?”
“She doesn’t know. She said they’re looking for her as well.”
“Why?”
“It seems they’re unhappy with her.” Pensive, Gwen looks down at the notes she’d been writing when Arthur arrived.
Before Arthur realizes how invasive the question might be, how unwelcome, he asks, “What’s that?”
Gwen doesn’t seem to notice. “Sometimes it’s easier to think when I write it down.” She picks up her quill, worries at it, and then sighs and sets it aside. “No harm will come to you here, though that has less to do with me and more with Merlin. But I won’t turn you over to anyone, so you needn’t worry about that.”
Arthur, who hadn’t been, nods.
“I’m afraid there will be trouble in the city,” Gwen says. “Things have been so uneasy since....”
Silence. Since Camlann, Arthur thinks; since Avalon. Since I renounced my kingship and made you the queen regnant of Camelot.
They sit for a while and don’t talk, allowing the silence to build. It is, Arthur thinks, a fortress that can be built brick-by-brick, painstakingly, over years; then demolished in an instant, with a single blow.
“How are you doing?” he asks. He knows that Gwen might scoff, might scorn the question—the tenebrous calm between them might split, like wood hewn with an axe. But it has been two months, and he misses her. He loves her, still.
She does none of the things that he feared. She half-smiles and shrugs, meeting his gaze, giving no quarter. “I’ve been better.” Her voice is wry but gentle. “And you, Arthur?”
He considers. “You know,” he says, “about the same.”
“Regretting your choice?”
“No. But it’s been harder than I expected it to be. I’ll spare you the details, since you’ve no doubt had it worse.”
Gwen laughs, abrupt and sweet. “How considerate of you.” She scrutinizes him for a moment. “There’s something I’ve been thinking about—something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I was going to talk to Merlin about it first, but I never got around to it.” She clears her throat. “I suppose I’ve been avoiding you both.”
“That’s all right.”
She makes a face. “Let’s leave that for Merlin to decide for himself. But I’m glad you think so.” This last she says so quietly that Arthur nearly does not hear it.
“I’m glad you’ve let me tell it to you,” he says. “I’ve missed you, Gwen.”
She shoots him a look. “Now that, I think, is too much for tonight.” She is still quiet, but not harsh. A little sad.
He lets it be. “All right. What was this thing you were going to ask me?”
“I think I will talk to Merlin about it first. I owe him that much. We'll talk about it later, all right?”
“All right.” Arthur is all too happy to agree to discuss something—anything—with Gwen at a later time. Just so long as they’ll be talking again, even about something small. Though this hardly sounds like it will be.
Gwen chews on the end of her quill for a moment—a habit that she’s had for as long as Arthur can remember—then marks a few things on her parchment. She stares at what she’s written for a long moment, then pushes the pages aside. “That’s settled, I think. And Morgana is still here. She’s in her old rooms if you’d like to see her. Sorry—I should’ve said that sooner. I think that’s where Merlin’s gotten to, most likely. He wasn’t happy about me insisting I talk to her alone.”
“Why would you do that?”
Gwen looks at Arthur for a moment. She is beautiful in this low light—as she is in all light, Arthur thinks. She looks tired, her long hair is bound neatly over one shoulder, and she wears no regalia: no circlet, no jewelry, no elaborate gown. Yet still she looks like a queen.
“I needed no protecting,” she says, “because Morgana is no threat anymore. What could she do to me?”
Arthur wants to believe that. But he can’t. “Kill you. It’s what she tried to do to me.”
“She wouldn’t. Not now. Not to me.”
“How can you be sure?”
Gwen stands and goes to the window. It is fully dark, and Arthur does not know what she is looking at. The streets below, perhaps; or the stars. “I know,” she says quietly, and that’s all.
Arthur senses that he has begun to overstay his welcome. Gwen does not turn from the window as he stands and crosses the room, but when he reaches the door, he stops. Hearing him pause, Gwen turns and raises an eyebrow at him.
“Can I take something?” he asks her. “One of my things?”
“You can take all your things if you’d like, though how you’ll store them in Gaius’s chambers is beyond me. I suppose that’s something else we’ll need to talk about.”
“Later. I only need the one thing, really. May I?”
He feels strange asking permission in his old room. Gwen obviously feels strange granting it, but she does so, watching with interest as Arthur goes to his old bedside table and reaches beneath it for the small key he hid there a long time ago.
“Not a creative hiding place,” he says conversationally, retrieving the key and approaching his old wardrobe, “but it’s not a very valuable item, so I figured it was safe enough, and this was just for my own peace of mind.”
And to hide the object from Uther, but Arthur does not say that. He doesn't think he’s ever fully admitted that to himself until now. He opens the wardrobe, feels around on the top shelf for the small, locked chest he kept up there, and opens that with the key.
Inside is the portrait of his mother. Ygraine as she had been more than three decades ago—newly married, flushed, happy, smiling. Arthur had salvaged the charcoal sketch when he was eleven after accidentally stumbling upon a trove of his mother’s belongings in Uther’s rooms. Uther had gotten rid of the rest of the items after that—either by destroying them or locking them away somewhere, Arthur never knew which, and when he was king he never found them anywhere—but this portrait Arthur had saved. He’d stuffed it beneath his shirt when Uther, apoplectic, had caught him going through his things.
“What is it?” Gwen asks. Arthur shows her. He watches her expression soften as she realizes who is in the sketch, sees the resemblance between them. “You never showed me that before,” she says.
“I haven’t thought about it in a long time,” Arthur says truthfully. “I wasn’t hiding it from you.”
Gwen nods. Arthur is grateful that she believes him—that she doesn’t, even now, press him on the matter, but lets it be. He slips the sketch into his pocket, careful not to crease its edges. It is an old, worn thing now; he cannot help but be gentle with it.
He takes his leave once more. “Goodnight, Gwen.”
She watches him go. “Goodnight, Arthur.”
Arthur runs into Merlin just down the hallway from Morgana’s chambers. Merlin is distracted, pensive, but also—and the idea of it is like a wrench, with the way it torques through Arthur—pleased. He doesn’t see Arthur coming. Arthur, who has been walking more quickly than he realized, has only a split-second to think: well, how about that?
Then they collide. Oof goes Merlin, and he would have lost his balance completely and toppled over had Arthur not grabbed him by the wrists and held him upright.
“Sorry,” Arthur says, pulling him close—just to keep him on his feet, of course— “sorry.” As he watches, Merlin’s expression goes from pleased to startled to wary. Arthur is sorry to see the first one go. “Gwen said you were with Morgana.” He lets go of Merlin’s wrists and watches Merlin take a small step backwards and compose himself. “Er.... How was she?”
Merlin, now recovered, hesitates, either shy about the topic or shy about talking about her Arthur after trying to avoid telling him she was here an hour ago. “Not what I expected.”
Arthur snorts. “Is she ever?” He studies Merlin’s face, searching for some trace of that small, lingering not-quite-happiness that he saw there moments before, but it's gone.
“You spoke to Gwen?”
“Yes. But don’t change the subject.”
“I wasn’t trying to.” Merlin sounds miffed. “I was surprised. You haven’t spoken to her at all in the past two months.”
“I...wanted to give her space.” It sounds as weak as it does when Arthur tries to convince himself of it.
“Maybe you gave her too much.”
“That’s for Gwen to decide,” Arthur says, “not me.”
If Merlin is surprised by that—or, more likely, remembering the Arthur he first met so long ago, who would never have said such a thing—he does not show it. But Arthur thinks that he is, just a little. “She seemed worried about you,” he adds.
Now Merlin does look surprised. “I doubt that.”
“Yes, she was.” Arthur knows not to push it, knows that Merlin will not listen to him about this, not for a while longer yet. Merlin has always been harder on himself than anyone else ever was on him. And hadn’t Gwen said essentially the same thing when she said that she thought Merlin blamed himself for what Morgana became, all the harm that she caused? What could you have done, Merlin? Arthur wants to say. I wouldn’t let you do anything. I was standing in your way, as implacable as stone. A fortress turned inside out.
It is how Arthur has thought of his own mind a few times before, when he gets lost in the circus of his thoughts, the terrible hard-edged drudgery of being, the unrelenting press of you should have done better, why didn’t you do better? For a long time that thought had been Uther’s voice. These days, it just sounds like Arthur’s own. “What did you talk about?” he asks Merlin.
“Hm?”
“You and Morgana.”
“Oh.” Merlin looks back at her door. The hallway is dimly lit; it has gone unused since Morgana left Camelot, and the only torches are at the very end of the corridor. For a moment Merlin’s face is entirely enshadowed. Then he looks back at Arthur and is himself again. “You, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, a little. And Uther.”
Arthur can feel Merlin watching him. Feel because he is doing his best not to look at Merlin, though this close, in the dark, it is difficult to look at anything else. “It always comes back to him somehow, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t have to,” Merlin says quietly.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning...you've made a choice Uther never would have made, for reasons that never would have meant anything to him. And when you summoned him with the Horn of Cathbhadh, you stopped him from killing me. You stood up to him—you told him what was in your heart. Why you wanted to be king, and who for. Maybe...maybe you can let him go.”
Let Uther go? Arthur would, if it were that simple, but he doesn’t think it is. No matter what he does or what he tells himself, he can't change the fact that Uther was his father, was the one who taught Arthur how to be king and how to be cruel, how to fight on the battlefield and in the council chambers. He has thought about letting Uther go, in vague and uncertain terms; it is part of why he used the Horn of Cathbhadh in the first place. But Arthur has begun to think that the answer to this problem is not as simple as holding on or letting go—that moving forward is not best served by severing all ties to the past that was your first harbor.
And if he could let Uther go by now, he would have. But he can’t. And Morgana can’t. That is, Arthur thinks, the entire point: in trying to let go, they have done nothing but let Uther’s grip on them grow ever tighter. Merlin is not wrong to suggest it; it's what Arthur likely would have said his place. Because how can anyone who is not inside the situation know the solution to it, simply from looking in? Merlin’s suggestion comes from a place borne of deep care and love, and Arthur is grateful to him for it, loves him for it. But he needs to do more than simply unmoor Uther’s grip and set him adrift.
“Maybe,” is what Arthur says, because he does not yet know how to say the rest of it. He looks at Merlin, smiling, loving him in this moment, a simple and unwearisome love. “I had other reasons besides standing up to my father for keeping you around, you know.”
Merlin smiles. “I’m aware.” But he looks, Arthur notes, slightly ill—as if the thought of what he wants to say next is consuming him.
“What is it?” Arthur asks.
“You never asked why Uther was trying to kill me."
“I suppose I didn’t.” There had been a great many things that Arthur never asked Merlin, before; he keeps uncovering them all the time. He waits, but Merlin says nothing until Arthur nudges him gently.
“I told him,” Merlin finally says. “About my magic.”
Arthur’s mouth drops. He half-turns and clears his throat to conceal it. “You did?”
“Yes. And a few more things, besides.”
“Such as?”
“That you were a better king than he ever was,” Merlin says. Arthur blinks, feeling his eyes start to burn. “And...that there has always been magic in the heart of Camelot.”
Arthur manages to blink away his tears, to smile. He reaches out and takes Merlin’s hand. “There was. And there always will be.”
Merlin smiles back. He, too, is blinking rapidly. “What I started out trying to say with all this, Arthur, is that you’ve done enough. You’ve always been enough.”
Arthur squeezes his hand, lets it go. He wishes Merlin would stop talking. He wishes he never would.
“And you shouldn’t compare yourself to Morgana,” Merlin says. “You shouldn’t envy her choice.”
“That’s funny,” says Arthur. “Gwen said the same thing about you.”
Merlin frowns. “What?”
“Later. Is Morgana still awake?”
“She was when I left, but fading fast.”
“I mean to talk to her.” Arthur says it and then doesn’t move, doesn’t approach her door, doesn’t do anything. He wants to reach out and take hold of Merlin’s hand again.
Merlin tilts his head, smiling. “Do you?”
“Yes.” Arthur steels himself. “Yes, I do. I’ll be back to Gaius’s quarters later, unless you think you need to chaperone me.”
Merlin hesitates. After a long, long moment, he says: “No. Go.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Arthur’s mouth. “But don’t be long.”
“I won’t,” Arthur promises, and he goes and opens Morgana’s door.
Her room is better lit than the hall, but not by much; the fire, while still hot at its embers, has burned low. The room is nearly as empty as it was the last time Arthur was here, which was a while ago—when he had overseen the removal of all of Morgana’s things after her betrayal and Uther’s subsequent swift downturn. (Though he hadn’t gotten rid of everything the way Agravaine had said to, had said was what Uther wanted, was what Arthur would want if he could think clearly—) Now there are a few dishes on the table, fresh linens on the bed, a thick blanket, a figure huddled in a chair by the fire with an empty wineglass dangling precariously from her hand. Somehow this is worse than seeing the room empty. At least that felt final. Felt like closure, though it hadn’t been. Arthur knocks on the doorframe, watching the figure by the fire, watching Morgana.
She sits slowly upright and looks at him blearily—exhausted or drunk, he cannot tell. Maybe both. But her voice is clear. “What?”
“Can I come in?”
“Lord, don’t,” Morgana says, and when Arthur turns she makes a disgusted sound and waves her hand at him, that’s not what I meant. “Just get in here and stop self-flagellating or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“I’m being respectful.” But Arthur does as she says, and sits in the chair beside hers by the fire.
“I knew you’d show up. God, I need more wine for this.” Morgana makes a half-attempted motion to stand, gives up. When Arthur gently takes the glass from her, he is aware of her eyes watching him. He fills the glass from the water pitcher, then hands it to her.
She takes a sip and scowls. “You ass.”
“You’ll thank me in the morning.”
“That’s a long way off yet.” But she drinks more of the water before setting the glass aside. “So what are you here to say?”
“Hello, first of all. Maybe some pleasantries. Cordial small talk.”
Morgana just looks at him. She looks small wrapped up in her heavy cloak, and so utterly familiar and unrecognizable that Arthur does not know how to make the feelings of her align, go parallel. Here she is, his sister, in her old rooms, the rooms where she lived when she was a child and they grew up together. Here he is in the castle that was once his own, the castle that their father built. Here they are in the place that is no longer theirs, despite that it still towers over them, looms massive in the mind.
“Gwen tells me some people are looking for us,” he says.
Morgana smiles a little. “That there are.”
“I can’t say we don’t deserve it.”
“Speak for yourself.” But she doesn’t look at him.
If Morgana wants to be stubborn, so be it. Arthur didn’t really expect otherwise. He sits back, looking around the familiar chambers. He realizes after a moment that he has one hand in his pocket, touching his mother’s portrait. He withdraws his hand. “Are you worried?”
“No.”
He can't tell if she means it. “Why not?”
“Why should I be?”
“You’ve made your fair share of enemies.”
“And none of them has bested me yet.”
“Except Merlin.”
“Yes.” Her voice betrays nothing. “Except him. And he is already here.” She pauses. “He seems well.”
“I’m touched, Morgana. I didn’t know you cared.”
“I surprise even myself. But ‘care’ is a strong word.”
Yes, Arthur thinks, it is. “Which would you use?”
“’Interested,’ maybe. A nebulous sort of interest, verging on apathy.”
“I’m sure Merlin will be moved to hear it.” She waves a vague hand at him, says nothing. “What did the two of you talk about, anyway?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Merlin said you spoke about me.”
“See? Like I said.”
“And Uther,” Arthur says.
Morgana’s mouth thins to a faint line. “If that’s what you’re here to talk about, then I’m afraid I’ve little else to say on that topic tonight.”
“Neither have I. I just wanted to know what you’re doing here.”
“You and everyone else! Haven’t I made myself perfectly clear? I came to warn Gwen of the magic users coming to Camelot, nothing more.”
“Then if that’s done, why have you stayed?”
“She asked me to.” When Arthur looks at her in surprise, Morgana shrugs and wraps herself more tightly in her cloak. “Ask her if you don’t believe me, but it’s true.”
“No,” Arthur says, “I believe you.”
“Of course you do.”
“If I were still king, I might have done the same.”
“If you were still king,” Morgana says quietly, “I’d have come here to kill you.”
Arthur says nothing. Morgana does not meet his gaze.
Maybe, maybe. Maybe if he had accepted magic, repealed its ban as king, then things could have been different. Maybe if he had offered Morgana the olive branch of forgiveness. Maybe if she had been willing to take it—if she had wanted, in the end, anything more than personal retribution, power for her own.
Selfish fools, the both of them. And in them both that is more than mere inheritance. They’ve always been more than the sum of Uther’s parts, even that in them which is self-centered, self-serving, self-knowing. In the end, who you are is about no one else but you.
“Do you really think Uther favored me?” Morgana says suddenly.
Arthur, not expecting it, half-turns in his chair towards her. Does he think that, or had he just said it because he’d been feeling mean, angry with Morgana for leaving, for trying a dozen different ways to have him killed yet never just doing it herself? “I don’t know. No, probably. I doubt he favored either of us. Or if he did it wasn’t for any reasons that matter.”
“I don’t think there can be any reason that matters enough to justify loving one of your children more than the other.” Morgana sounds cold, tired.
Arthur sets his jaw. He remembers what Merlin said before: that, despite everything that Uther ever said, ever hinted, ever implied, Arthur has always been enough. Uther’s legacy crushes like a yoke across his and Morgana’s shoulders. And for what? All this for a man who, in his heart, never seemed to love either of them at all.
“Neither do I,” he says.
Morgana meets his gaze. She does not smile, but her expression softens, perhaps only in a way that Arthur, who has known her for so long, and had thought so well, would notice.
Yet what was it Gwen said? That she’d once known Morgana better than anyone else. Better even than Arthur had. Certainly Arthur had never expected that Gwen would let Morgana go. And he’d have thought that Morgana would return for retribution before a fortnight had passed—that she would come back to raze Camelot and seize its throne from the woman who had, a long time before, been her maid. But Morgana hadn’t done that. She had come back, in the end, to warn Gwen of something coming.
“You came back for Gwen.” He studies Morgana’s face for the reaction that he knows will not be forthcoming. “Didn’t you?”
Morgana’s voice is dry. “As I’ve already explained countless times tonight—yes, Arthur, I came back to warn Gwen about the magic users coming to Camelot. Do we need to go over this a second time? Perhaps draw up a diagram so you can better understand it, really absorb the material?”
“No, I mean it. Your quarrel with me was legitimate enough—”
“It wasn’t a quarrel—”
“—Alright, yes, whatever you want to call it, but it made sense because I was king and I kept magic unfree in Camelot. To some extent I guess your animosity towards Merlin can be understood, too, because he was protecting me and I was in your way. But Gwen—she was your friend, Morgana, a true friend, someone who cared about you—”
“Arthur—”
“—And yet you turned around and suddenly hated her. Whether because I married her and she became queen or something else, I don’t even know what, I’ve never claimed to understand it—but you feel guilty for that. That much, at least, you regret.” Arthur watches Morgana’s face. As he expected, she gives away absolutely nothing. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
She looks into the dying fire, unmoving. “You’re not.”
But it doesn’t matter. As good a liar as she is, she’s still his sister. And Arthur knows her.
He hides a smile, knowing that if she sees it she will only become angry. He stands and puts some wood on the fire. “Going to be cold tonight. Will you need anymore wood?”
“It’ll last,” Morgana says.
Yes, Arthur thinks; that it might.
“I’ll let you sleep,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“If we must,” Morgana grumbles. But she stands, taking her cloak with her, and goes to the washbasin on the other side of the room. Arthur decides this is as good a time as any to leave. But then he sees Morgana’s face in the mirror above the basin, and the expression there that she thinks Arthur cannot see.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
Fine. “Goodnight, then.”
“Arthur—” She turns to face him before he takes a single step towards the door. She pauses, swallows. “I assume you got rid of all my things.”
“No, actually. Agravaine wanted me to, but—”
“What?” Morgana’s hands clutch the edges of her cloak. “That fucking bastard.”
“Yeah.” For some reason, Arthur feels cheerful upon saying it. “What do you want?”
“I...not all of it. Not most of it, even. There were a few things—some books, some jewelry, that were my parents’. Gorlois and Vivienne’s, I mean.”
Somehow Arthur had almost forgotten that Morgana’s only parent wasn’t Uther—that her early childhood had not been defined exactly as his had been. “Right. Well, everything that was in these rooms is in a corner of the basements. I could show you tomorrow if you’d like, it’s a maze down there.”
She hesitates, not agreeing, not refusing.
“Or I’ll draw you a map,” Arthur says. “I’ll send it over tomorrow. All right?”
Morgana nods. She does not say thank you. Arthur finds that he does not need her to, nor even want her to.
It is late when he gets back to Gaius’s rooms: long after midnight. Arthur sneaks in quietly, opening the door cautiously so it does not creak. He should take a look at those hinges tomorrow, see if he can’t do anything about them. The chambers are dark and cold and he crosses them to Merlin’s room, shivering, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.
He cannot see as he changes into one of Merlin’s undertunics—he really should retrieve at least some of his clothes, but he just hasn’t gotten around to it—but still he can sense Merlin’s presence, the shape of his warmth. As he approaches the bed he makes out the outline of a dim shape sitting up in the dark, half-asleep, groggy. “Arthur?”
“Mm. Budge up, I’m freezing.”
Merlin does so, exhaling as he makes room for Arthur on the narrow bed. Still only semi-conscious, he curls around Arthur and pulls him close. Arthur presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead. They are both asleep in a matter of minutes.
xi.
The next morning, standing in the castle dungeons—the basements, as Arthur had so diplomatically called them—covered in dust, spider webs, and dirt, Morgana finally admits to herself that it’s time to give up. She brushes off the front of her dress, which is knotted around her knees to keep out of her way, sighs at the futility of it, and sits on an old crate with a huff. Dust billows slowly to the floor.
She wipes her hand across her forehead and peers at Arthur’s map again. It is neatly drawn and misleadingly simple; she suspects that he abridged some of the twisting passageways and endless rooms out of pure habit, an overfamiliarity with the place that she does not share. She had no reason to come down here even when she lived in Camelot, but Arthur spent countless days exploring the castle when he was small, fighting imaginary dragons and evil sorcerers in dark corners.
A real sorcerer is here now, but Morgana is tired and frustrated. If she had something to focus the magic, she could cast a spell of true-finding, but she doesn’t. She would need a page of one of Gorlois’s battered books, or a tarnished old earring of Vivienne’s, but she doesn’t have anything like that. Maybe the map? Arthur drew it, and he knows where all of Morgana’s old belongings are—his intention and knowledge would be imbued in the parchment. If Morgana wreaks the spell properly, she can tap into that.
She presses her hand flat against the map and closes her eyes. For a moment she thinks that it’s working: she senses something, an undercurrent, an almost-knowing. Then it fades. Disgusted, Morgana throws the map to the floor. It flutters unsatisfactorily. She doesn’t know the words for a spell like this—doesn’t know how to translate what she wants into something that happens. No doubt Merlin would be able to do this with ease. Well, damn him, anyway.
For a while Morgana just sits there, staring at nothing. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have stayed. Being in this castle—free, unrestricted, unwatched as far as she can tell—feels like a cosmic joke. What will she do now with her life? What the hell does she want to do? She has no answers. She has theoretically gotten what she wanted: freedom for magic in Camelot. But she got it through no effort of her own, because of nothing that she did. It is a hollow denouement, and she knows exactly how selfish that is. How self-important she had been, how full of herself! And for what—a High Priestesshood that she fulfills only in name, countless enemies, a longing for something that she turned her back on years ago out of spite, out of vindictiveness?
“Having trouble?” someone asks.
Morgana jumps and looks around. There, in plain riding gear, her hair up, is Gwen. Morgana hadn’t even heard her approaching footsteps. “What are you doing here?”
“I went to your rooms looking for you, but you weren’t there. Arthur said you’d gone down to the basements to find your old things, but that that had been hours ago. I thought I’d check to make sure you weren’t pinned under an old dresser or something.”
“On speaking terms with Arthur again, I see.”
“Not really.” Gwen looks weary when she says it. “Have you found your things?”
Morgana gestures around the dusty old room. “Hardly.”
“Hand me the map, I can help. I was here when Arthur had your stuff brought down.”
Morgana picks up Arthur’s map and gives it to Gwen. “I’m surprised he didn’t just have it all burned or thrown in the lake.”
“I’m not,” says Gwen. “He’s more sentimental than you’d expect.” As she says it she brushes her thumb over the heavy ring on her right hand. Arthur’s ring—Ygraine’s ring. “Look, you’ve made a wrong turn. You should’ve gone down the other corridor.”
Maddeningly, Gwen is right. As soon as they reach the proper room, Morgana recognizes her belongings right away, neatly stacked and stored with a categorical precision that she knows immediately is Arthur’s. He has the tendency to confront most things, even ordinary things, the way he would a battlefield. Ever the strategist.
Morgana finds that—as she had told Arthur, but had not been sure was fully true—she doesn’t want most of these items again. She wants her father’s books and her mother’s jewelry, and that’s all. She hunts through the stacks to find them. Gwen, leaning against the wall by the door, just watches.
It takes a few minutes, but Morgana finds what she’s looking for: two small chests of books and a drawer of jumbled jewelry. She will have to spend time untangling that, and it may take her two trips to lug the books upstairs, but she’s found them.
“What is it?” Gwen asks.
Morgana shrugs. “Nothing, really.” Then she feels compelled to tell the truth. “The books were Gorlois’s. The jewelry was my mother’s.”
“Oh.” She feels Gwen watching her. “You and Arthur are so alike, you know. Last night he pulled a key from under the bedside table in my rooms and unlocked a chest with a portrait of Ygraine secreted away inside. I didn’t know he even had that. And you never told me these things were your parents’.”
“It never came up, I guess.”
“No,” says Gwen, “I guess it didn’t.” She watches Morgana drag one of the heavy chests to the door. “You know”—she sounds strange, tightly controlled—“even though you came to warn me of a potential danger to the kingdom and I should be grateful for that, I can’t help but wish you hadn’t come back.”
Morgana stops dragging the chest. She can feel her heart racing, and not from exertion.
“You nearly killed Elyan. He’s still unwell—he hasn’t returned to his duties, and he blames himself for that, for not being able to protect me. I still have to tell him that you’re back in the city, unless Percival and Gwaine already have, and I’m dreading it. You kidnapped me—tormented me—you tried to make me kill Arthur—”
Gwen’s voice fails. She stares at Morgana, restrained but furious, and hurt, too: betrayed. “You were my best friend,” she says at last. “More than that. You were.... And you just threw me away. Not even for mere expedience, which maybe I could have learned to live with, even if I didn’t like it, because at least that would've made a sort of sense—I hated Uther, too. And if I’d given it more thought, real thought—I didn’t, I know I didn’t—I could have convinced Arthur to repeal the magic ban. But I didn’t want to, because that’s what you wanted, and you threw me away with no more thought than you’d give to tossing aside table scraps.”
Morgana stands very still, half-bent over the chest, her fingers gripping its edges. Somehow she hadn’t expected Gwen to bring this up face-to-face. Or else Morgana just hadn’t wanted her to—had been afraid to have the conversation, ashamed. She can’t tell Gwen that she’s wrong, that it wasn’t like that—she isn’t, and it was. When Morgana betrayed Uther and left Camelot, she’d wanted to cause as much pain to as many people as she could. And she had done so with style. What is there to say after all of that? Sorry?
“Sometimes I think I know why you did it,” Gwen says. “Most of the time I can’t begin to understand it. And now here you are, and I am queen, by marriage and abdication, and you, royal by birthright, are not. I know that grates on you—keeps you up at night, no doubt. So, Morgana—all I can think to ask is, why are you here?”
Morgana knows that repeating that she is here to warn Gwen of the magic users and to face them will not suffice, despite being true, despite being mostly all. She could twist, she could deflect, she could lie. She could tell the truth. She does not know which course is best—which will, ironically, impart the least harm. In the end she can think of nothing else to say but this, the truth that Arthur had realized last night. “I wanted to see you.”
Gwen stands motionless. Then she shakes her head and goes to the second chest of books, starts dragging it to the door. “Finally, a real answer.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because it’s selfish.” But Gwen smiles. “Or at least not altruistic. What if I hadn’t wanted to see you?”
Morgana shrugs. “I guess I would've had to accept that.”
They wrestle with the books together, reaching the stairs. “Somehow, I don’t think you would have,” says Gwen.
Leon confronts them in the corridor outside Morgana’s chambers. He is wearing his armor, his sword strapped to his hip. His gaze flicks unevenly between the two of them, lingering on Morgana, before he bows to Gwen.
The distress apparent on his face makes Gwen straighten. “What is it, Leon?”
“My lady, the sorcerers Morgana warned you about—they’re here.”
“Magic users of all sorts,” Morgana says, “not sorcerers. Not all of them, anyway.” Her mouth has gone dry, and she carefully lowers the chest of books to the floor. They’re here already. A ringing starts in her ears, like the hollow after-echo of a war trumpet.
Gwen stares at Leon, stricken. “What have they done?”
“Nothing. They’ve gathered outside the city gates. They’re requesting an audience with you. Demanding, really.”
Gwen, half in a daze, sets the chest in her arms atop Morgana’s. Their eyes meet for a moment. Morgana feels Gwen searching her through their joined gaze, the depths of her warm brown eyes probing, unflinching. Morgana stands motionless, pinned by the power of that gaze, a flash of something like lightning passing between the two of them, forceful as a silent thunderclap. She has not sensed any of Gwen’s thoughts since before leaving Camelot over five years ago, whether because Gwen hardened herself against Morgana’s sensitive underhearing without realizing it or because, in turning against their past friendship, Morgana lost whatever tenuous connection between them that had allowed flashes of Gwen’s inner self to brush ever briefly against the outer edges of Morgana’s consciousness. But in this moment Morgana feels one of those old flashes, painful in its familiarity, like tasting a favorite dish you haven’t had since childhood, nostalgia and memory drowning the senses like a river that has flooded its banks, a flash of thought-self-mind that overwhelms Morgana with its intensity, its determination.
If Morgana were a weaker person, she might have flinched: might have stumbled to her knees from the force of that flash. But she is not weak, and she does not stumble. Yet her breath catches in her throat like a door against its latch, awaiting one last gentle push to throw it open to the wind outside.
Gwen turns away, turns to Leon. “Fetch Arthur and Merlin. Bring them to the side chambers of the throne room. Tell them what’s happening, but tell them I’ve asked them to let me handle this as I see best. And find Percival and Gwaine and bring them here.”
Leon nods. “Yes, my lady.” But he hesitates, watching her.
“These magic users want an audience with the court,” says Gwen. “They want to publicly address the wrongs they’ve suffered. I won’t deny any citizens of Camelot the right to speak. Escort them through the city with Percival and Gwaine and anyone else you can trust not to cause trouble. Tell the magic users they’ll have their audience with me, and that if they do not cause harm, no harm will come to them in return. Go!”
Leon bows again and hurries down the corridor, soon disappearing from sight.
Gwen looks to Morgana. “I’ve got to change, I suppose. These people want an audience with the queen of Camelot, not me in my dirty riding gear. Go to the throne chamber’s side rooms. Merlin and Arthur will meet you there.”
Morgana swallows. “Gwen....”
“Go, Morgana,” Gwen says. She touches Morgana’s hand—the briefest of gestures, an insignificant point of contact—and then turns and follows Leon down the hall, not looking back.
Morgana, motionless, feels the blood rush through her, her hand tingling like the air before a thunderstorm.
She walks alone to the throne room, hearing the castle quietly rumble to life around her as news of the approaching magic users spreads. Servants and knights whom Morgana does not recognize rush through the halls, stepping past her, hardly sparing her a glance, either not recognizing her or trusting that, as Gwen has no doubt told them, she is no threat. Morgana has never felt so insignificant. Turnabout’s fair play, she can hear Merlin saying, see him smiling.
She reaches the throne room and lingers by the door, unwilling to cross its threshold. The last time she was here, she thought she was queen and Camelot her own. What would she have done with a kingdom of people who hated her, who longed for their king to return and cast out the usurper on the throne? Shortsighted. Foolish. She’d have had her throat slit while she slept, her wine poisoned at dinner, a knife stuck in her back while she made proclamations in the council chambers. Uther had walked the fine line of tyranny when he was king, suppressing insurrection and agitation with an iron fist. If Morgana had remained queen, she would have eventually done the same.
And somehow she had convinced herself that was justified. That her hatred, her anger, her cruelty was different, because it was hers.
“Morgana!”
She turns. Arthur is at the end of the hall, Merlin trailing behind. He hurries towards her. “Are you all right?”
She laughs. She can’t help it. “Oh, Arthur.”
Merlin watches her, his eyes glittering.
“What should we do?” Arthur looks between the two of them. Merlin shakes his head, saying nothing.
Through their unwillingness to act, they make the decision Morgana’s choice. She doesn't know whether that is by design. “We’ll do what Gwen told us to do,” she says, and leads the way into the side room off the main chambers of the throne room. After a moment’s hesitation, Arthur and Merlin follow her.
They stand there awkwardly, listening to people rushing outside, hurrying footsteps, distant shouting. “Did you find your things?” Arthur asks.
“Yes, though I couldn’t decipher your map for the life of me,” Morgana says. “Gwen had to help.”
Arthur looks sheepish. “Sorry.” He glances at Merlin, who is smiling. “What?”
“I told you that you were forgetting some of the passageways.”
“Not forgetting, I was streamlining—”
Someone knocks on the door, interrupting Arthur, and does not wait for a response before entering the small room. Dressed in full regalia, wearing a plum-red dress and a ruby-studded golden crown on her brow, Gwen looks between the three of them, assesses them, and, a split-second after entering, has complete control of the room. Arthur falls silent, looking at her; Merlin does the same. Morgana looks away after that initial glance, her heart hammering, sick with nerves. When she manages to look back she sees Gwen, astonishingly, spare her a small knowing smile.
“Well, they’re here,” Gwen says. “About four dozen of them, give or take, from villages and towns all over Camelot.”
“Have they done anything?” Arthur asks.
“Aside from request an audience and demand that I hand you and Morgana over to them, no. They’ll have their first request, as is their right. And though they’ve requested an audience with me, I think they really wish to speak to you and Morgana. I won’t deny them that chance, at least. Are you ready?”
Arthur swallows. He glances at Merlin, who takes his hand. “Yes.”
Gwen, too, looks to Merlin. He meets her gaze, holds it; then nods.
“Morgana?” says Gwen.
Hell, she’d wanted to talk to them, hadn’t she? “Ready,” Morgana says.
The magic users are already in the throne room, waiting, unnaturally silent, when Gwen leads them in. Morgana hadn’t even heard them file into the room. Four dozen, Gwen had said—it feels like more than that to Morgana, who looks into their faces and sees determination, contempt, begrudging admiration, doubt, derision, surety. They are, she thinks, a reckoning. A force to be reckoned with, and a force that will reckon her and Arthur in return. At first glance she recognizes none of them. Anything more than a glance proves dizzying. She looks away.
Gwen approaches the throne but does not take a seat, nor even climb to the platform upon which the throne rests. She stands before the steps instead and gestures for Morgana, Arthur, and Merlin to follow her. They do. Along the wall on either side of the great doorway stands a row of knights and various court advisors. Morgana recognizes Gaius and is shocked by the sudden relief she feels when she sees him standing there.
Into the great silence of that waiting hall, Gwen speaks. “People of Camelot, you have asked for an audience with the court. That right is granted. If you’ve chosen someone as your spokesperson, let them come forward.”
The magic users shuffle, whispering among themselves, people moving out of position and stepping back to leave room for their chosen speaker to step forward. The speaker does so—an elderly woman, white-haired, bent with age but walking without crutch or staff. She meets Gwen’s gaze, not bowing to the throne or the person who has chosen not to sit on it. Morgana sees Arthur stiffen and knows exactly what he is thinking, because she is thinking it, too. Uther would never have let such an insult pass without punishment.
Gwen smiles at the old woman. “What’s your name?”
“Ida, my lady.”
“Thank you for agreeing to speak on your countrymen’s behalf, Ida. We don’t have enough chairs for everyone, but I can bring one in for you if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” Ida says, “but I will stand.”
Gwen nods and holds out her hands, spreading them in a gesture of welcome, of invitation. Morgana doubts that anyone else notices it, but she sees the faintest hint of a tremble in Gwen’s fingers. This is, in a way, her first real test as queen.
“We debated long about what we would do when we reached the city,” Ida says. “Indeed we’ve agreed on less than we hoped, but still there’s much we wish to say. I’ll do my best to speak for my fellow magic users, both those who stand here with me and those who do not—those who are at their homes, tending their fields, bathing their children, sitting at their looms, preparing their suppers, living their lives. And I will do my best to speak for those who are dead—who died during the thirty-and-more years of Uther’s reign and the following years of his son’s.”
Ida looks at Arthur. Arthur, unflinching, pale, looks back.
“This is the face of magic in Camelot,” says Ida. “We want you to look upon that face, Arthur Pendragon—upon our faces. Women and men, young and old, farmers, farriers, blacksmiths, drunks, doctors, traders, craftsmen. We are witches, sorcerers, enchanters, warlocks. We know hexes and charms, incantations and illusions, jinxes and divinations. We pass our knowledge to each other, sharing books on magic and lore that your father would have burned, memorizing incantations and reciting them for others in whispers, scratching spells into the dirt. Some of us have only enough power to heat a thimbleful of water without a fire, or to stir a cool breeze on a still day. And some of us have power enough to mend broken bones that have set incorrectly, or to whip up a fog so thick it hides a village from invaders. Most of us don’t use our magic to do so much. We live our lives, we raise our children, we do our work—the work that each of us feels called upon to do. Some of us were driven from our homes by people we lived alongside for twenty years, forty, whose hearts changed when Uther made magic unfree in Camelot. Most of us have lived in hiding our entire lives, telling no one what we truly are. Some of us have been sheltered, kept safe, by communities who realized we weren’t the threat the Pendragons in Camelot said we were, and who knew we were still their neighbors, their loved ones, their friends. But all of us have suffered during your rule and Uther’s rule. We are the face of magic in Camelot, Arthur. Look upon us well.”
The hall is silent. Arthur looks at Ida—looks at all the magic users assembled there, enduring the accusation of their collective gaze. A muscle in his jaw twitches. Ida, whom Morgana had expected to be condemnatory, righteous, is instead gently stern, her brown eyes as clear as amber. Then she turns her gaze upon Morgana, immobilizing her with a look.
“Morgana Pendragon, you resisted Uther and Arthur’s rule, and you thought every magic user in Camelot should bend the knee to you because of it. Those of us who joined your cause you used as pawns, not caring how many died and suffered so you could wage your own self-righteous war. Those who did not join you, you disdained, believing them stupid, cowardly, weak, ignoring all the ways we’ve resisted and survived the Pendragons for decades—since long before you decided to join the fight. You didn't ask us for our strategies, our knowledge, our lore and wisdom. You only wanted warm bodies to throw at the swords and pikes of Camelot, hoping that eventually you’d be able to step over our corpses and sit upon the throne.”
Morgana feels Gwen watching her. She cannot look away from Ida’s face to return her glance. Beneath the weight of Ida’s gaze she is an insect pinned to the backdrop of the universe. Ida looks at Morgana, weighing her, measuring her, as surely as a pair of scales: Morgana on one side, and the ideals she once held so dear—justice, mercy, peace—on the other. Then Ida turns away. Morgana sags forward, catches herself, embarrassed by the intensity of her reaction. Someone is touching her elbow. Gwen.
Ida continues speaking, not to Morgana or Arthur but to Merlin. Out of the corner of her eye Morgana sees Merlin straighten when Ida says his name. “We've struggled to know what to make of you, Merlin,” Ida says. “You are a sorcerer who spent ten years serving Arthur Pendragon. Were you a fool, oblivious to what was happening, or were you a traitor who didn’t care? Were you a hypocrite who was satisfied so long as you were provided for? Or was the truth something else entirely? We’ve heard that Arthur abdicated his throne for his love of you, that he renounced his former law after learning of your magic. I’ll be truthful—I didn’t know what to make of this, or of you. But someone here defended you. They said you’ve always acted out of compassion and love. They said you, more than anyone else they’ve ever known, have been guided by those highest principles of justice and of mercy. Not all of us believed that when we heard it. But some of us did. For my part, looking upon you now, knowing what I do of your years in Camelot, I think what this person said is true. And I’m grateful to you.”
Merlin is searching the crowd, looking for someone he recognizes. He looks baffled, embarrassed. “Who told you this? Who spoke for me?”
Ida turns. A few movements, everyone moving and shuffling to let someone pass: and then there, limping forward, bearing his weight heavily upon his oak staff, is Mordred.
Morgana sees the moment Merlin recognizes him, his expression becoming instantly wary, then ashamed for that reaction, then stubbornly guarded. Mordred nearly killed Arthur, after all; Morgana thinks that, out of everyone here, Merlin is the least likely to ever forgive him that.
“I spoke for you, Merlin,” Mordred says. “As best as I could, as much as I knew. I’m sure it’s far from all—I know you’ve done more good than I can personally attest to. But I’ve done my best.”
Merlin, speechless, says nothing, just stares at Mordred, who smiles at him, wan.
Morgana speaks before she can stop herself. “You told me you didn’t stand with these people—you said you didn’t know who or where they were.”
“I didn’t.” Mordred meets her gaze, white-knuckled with exertion but, as far as she can tell, utterly truthful. “I left the my people the day after you did, and I followed you to Camelot. By chance I met them along the way. They recognized me and asked me what I knew about you, about Arthur. I saw little point in not telling them.” He glances at Ida, looking grimly amused. “I even spoke for you, Morgana, a little. But that will take more than mere words from me to ever be convincing.”
“He said you were conflicted and confused,” Ida says. “Be that as it may, he’s right that such insights change little, confronted with the realities of your actions.”
Morgana, reflexively, sends Mordred an offended thought across the mindspeech. —Confused?
He looks back at her, mild. —You mean you weren’t?
She looks away from him, closing their mental connection. When she does she catches a glimpse of Merlin staring at her, poorly concealing his surprise. That’s right; he didn’t know she could use the mindspeech, or at least he has never heard her use it. Whether he is surprised by underhearing their brief mental conversation or by the content of it, Morgana doesn’t bother to ask.
“So now I've said the things we agreed needed saying,” Ida says. “Now we reach the things we could not agree on—those things we'd demand of you, Your Highness, as punishment or retribution or justice, take your pick, for the grievances we’ve endured. Some of us want Arthur and Morgana handed over so we may deal with them ourselves. Some of us believe their loss of power is enough, and that their fates now are irrelevant. Some of us think they should be banished from Camelot forever. Some of us don’t care what they do now. We’ve debated long and hard on this and reached no consensus. Therefore we turn the question now to you, Queen Guinevere—what do you think should be done with this conundrum set before us? Where do you believe the path to justice lies?”
All eyes in the hall look to Gwen. To the queen, Morgana corrects herself—the queen of Camelot. Gwen stands tall and alone and very, very still, saying nothing. Morgana remembers the shock of her knees hitting the stone floor when Merlin forced her to kneel, the precisely-curated calm on Gwen’s face after she pulled Morgana to her feet. She remembers Rohesia telling her that even if she were a serving girl, she would not deserve Morgana’s mistreatment. She remembers Gwen that morning, just over an hour ago, helping Morgana carry her parents’ old belongings up the stairs.
She remembers Gwen from years ago, a decade ago—the tender affection in her touch when she would surreptitiously slip her hand in Morgana’s, or turn Morgana’s face to hers for a kiss, for a smile, for a laugh shared in the space between them.
If everyone here were watching, Morgana thinks—light-headed with the acknowledgment of it to herself, to her heart—and you asked me too, still I would kneel to you.
But of course Gwen would never ask. Unaccustomed to being queen, and all-too-aware of Morgana’s temperament and not-so-recent change of heart, she would never ask Morgana to do this thing that Gwen believes Morgana would never consent to do, would never even want to do. And she shouldn’t have to ask.
Morgana steps forward, closing the distance between herself and Gwen, the last shared space between them. She sees Arthur stiffen, sees Merlin’s hands become fists. Even Mordred looks alarmed. But Gwen does not. She looks at Morgana, surprised but unafraid, frowning because at first she doesn’t understand, and then she does—
Morgana, gathering her skirts around herself, slowly kneels at Gwen’s feet.
The hall, which had already been quiet, grows hushed. Morgana can feel everyone staring at her, can sense the quick-shock-flash of Mordred’s thoughts before he manages to dampen them, can see Arthur mouthing something to Merlin out of the corner of her eye. She does not turn from Gwen, who looks down at Morgana, stunned and doing a better job hiding it than Morgana would have expected, but Morgana knows her and sees it all the same. Morgana is hyper-aware of her own reaction, the flush spreading across her face, her blood rushing in her ears. She stays still, waiting, knowing that whatever happens next must happen and she must accept it, whatever it is, even if Gwen turns her aside: turns her away.
“I put myself in your hands, Your Highness,” Morgana says. “Whatever you decide to do with me, I will abide by your decision.”
“Do with you? Morgana....” But Gwen remembers everyone else there, everyone else watching. She looks around at them, shaken but still controlled, maintaining her authority, maintaining the crown. How unfair for Arthur to place that burden on her shoulders. Not because she can’t handle it, but because no one should ever have to handle it alone. Especially not unasked-for, unexpected.
Yet if anyone can do that, Gwen can. She is proving it now, as Morgana watches; gathering herself, making her decision, planning her speech. She puts out her hand, hesitates. Then she touches, gently, the side of Morgana’s face.
Morgana closes her eyes.
“It should go without saying,” someone says—Arthur— “but in case it doesn’t, I’ll say it. Whatever you decide, Your Highness, I'll also accept.” When Morgana turns her head and looks at him, her brother, she sees him kneeling just behind her. Arthur sees her looking and winks.
“Then stand,” says Gwen, a little shakily. “I know what I would do, if the good people of Camelot will hear it.” Morgana gets to her feet, hears Arthur do the same. All the while Gwen looks at her, and her alone. “Magic has spent too long being voiceless in Camelot. I’ve tried to figure out how to make amends and hardly known where to begin. I’m not a sorcerer—I don’t have magic. So maybe I can’t see the best path on my own. That’s why I’ve asked Merlin to be the royal sorcerer to the court of Camelot, to advise me on issues of magic and help guide me to better decisions than the ones that came before me. He has agreed, with the condition that those of you here must approve his appointment before it be made official.”
Ida confers with a few of her fellows for a moment. “And if we don’t?”
“Then the appointment will not stand,” Gwen says simply.
The magic users talk amongst themselves for a few minutes. Arthur, who had stared at Merlin when Gwen made this announcement, is whispering something to him now, something that Merlin does not seem to be paying much attention to. He’s looking at Morgana. She raises an eyebrow at him.
—You surprised me, Merlin says to her, mind-to-mind. It is the first time that their thoughts have ever touched—the first time that Morgana has ever felt so much as a flash from behind Merlin’s mental wall. This is much more than a flash. —I didn’t think you could still do that.
She makes herself smile through the abrupt dizziness. She wonders whether Merlin knows how intense his mental self is, how jarring to the unexpecting recipient. He has not had, she supposes, much practice in mental conversation. —Thought you had me figured out, didn’t you?
—Yes, Merlin says, unabashed. A moment’s hesitation; a whisper of echoed guilt from across their mind link. —I’m glad I was wrong.
—You never know. This could all be some clever ruse.
Merlin looks at her, looks at Gwen. —It isn’t.
“We’ve reached our decision,” Ida says to the court. Everyone turns to her. She is looking discerningly at Merlin, her gaze unnervingly insightful. “We accept Merlin’s appointment as royal sorcerer.”
“Oh, wonderful.” Gwen is smiling, her hands clasped before her chest. “Thank you, Ida—all of you.”
“Yes,” Merlin says quietly. “Thank you.”
“We do have one request,” says Ida. “We ask permission to choose from our own number someone else to serve as advisor to the court. Another magic user.”
“Granted,” Gwen says, before Morgana has time to even parse the audacious request. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“That will take time for us to decide, my lady.”
“You’ll have it. We’ll work together to sort out the logistics at a later time.”
Ida inclines her head. “As you say. Yet the fates of Arthur and Morgana remain to be decided.”
Gwen hesitates, just for a moment. Her eyes meet Morgana’s. “I had intended, if Merlin agreed to his position, to ask Arthur to take on the role of knight captain, to advise me on matters of war and strategy.” The hall bubbles with disapproval. Gwen raises her hands. “Please, listen. I’m not a soldier. I have some skill with a sword, but little experience leading others into battle or training the knights of Camelot—tasks that traditionally fall upon the king. Arthur is not the king.” She looks at Arthur when she says this. Her voice does not waver. “I don’t mean for this appointment to reinstate him to that role in any capacity. But he has skills and experience I lack—insight I could use. And above everything else, more than all of that, he loves the people of Camelot. He’s caused you harm, suffering. Let him have the chance to make things right.”
Ida matches Gwen’s gaze steadily. She does not turn to confer with her fellows. “This will be a difficult thing for us to accept.”
“I know. I’m not asking you to forgive him. Just to allow him the chance to do some good in your service.”
Ida turns her head to listen to her fellow magic users vying for her attention, whispering in her ear. “We need time to discuss this, my lady, if you permit it. A day or two perhaps.” Gwen nods. “And what, then, of Morgana?”
Gwen looks at Morgana. Morgana looks back, immobilized. Yes, she thinks—what of me?
“I admit,” Gwen says quietly, “that her fate is less clear to me. I don’t know if I have the answer. But if Arthur should be allowed to make amends, then so should she, in whatever form that may take.”
“Then we shall discuss that, too.” Ida pauses, eyeing Gwen openly, honestly. “We’ve talked much here today about others, Your Highness. We haven't yet talked about you. Nor have you taken any credit for the good you’ve done. Your first act as queen was to repeal the magic ban. As you have said, you don't have magic; you haven’t lived these more than thirty years as a shadow. So I think you may not even realize, not fully, the full meaning of what you’ve done. You've changed the lives of everyone standing here. And we are but a fraction of the magic users in Camelot, a fraction of the people you have set free. I wasn’t sure what to expect when we arrived here. Would you be a puppet queen, still beholden to Arthur’s bidding? Would you be cruel, like Uther, or oblivious, like Arthur? Worse, would you reverse your decision when we confronted you, and criminalize magic in Camelot once more? But that was a risk we had to take. We had to see what sort of queen you would be. And you are none of the things we feared. You are all that we were afraid to hope for. You are just and good-hearted, true-seeing and fair, unafraid to admit fault. Yet also you seem unable to recognize the good you’ve done. So we will tell you. Thank you, Your Highness.” Ida’s mouth crooks. “My knees aren’t what they used to be, but I know the power of the symbolic gesture.” She motions for Mordred to help her and he does, catching her by the elbows and helping her, slowly, to kneel.
Behind her, one-by-one, all the gathered magic users of Camelot do the same.
Gwen, speechless, blinking back tears, can't stop herself from smiling.
Some time later the magic users take their leave, retiring to inns and taverns across the city to debate among themselves. Most of the knights and royal advisors leave with them, off to spread the news among their friends and colleagues. Morgana sees Gaius take Merlin aside in the bustle and converse with him in hushed tones. Gaius is beaming, and Merlin matches his smile, shy. After a short time Gaius hugs Merlin tightly, then heads for the hallway. At the door he turns and looks at Morgana, his expression unreadable. Then a smile ghosts across his face before he nods at her, leaves. Morgana is shocked by her reaction, the way her throat tightens. Gaius was a sorcerer once, too, she remembers. When she left Camelot she had hated him for abiding Uther, for abetting him, even when she missed him dearly. Yet he must have been keeping Merlin’s secret for him all these years, as he had initially kept hers.
Soon only Morgana, Gwen, Arthur, Merlin, and Mordred remain in the throne room, with Leon and Gwaine ostensibly guarding the door, looking very much like they want to eavesdrop and are semi-successfully resisting the urge. The five of them look at each other for a moment, silent, awkward.
“You didn’t have to do that, Gwen,” Arthur says at last. “Thank you.”
She shrugs. “I said I would protect you, but they weren’t wrong to want something from you. I wanted to do what was right, if I could.”
“I think you did. Or I hope you did. I suppose that’s not my place to decide.” Arthur looks at Morgana. “I couldn’t believe it when you kneeled. I thought I must be seeing things.”
Morgana mirrors Gwen, shrugs. She doesn’t know what to say.
“You really took the wind out of my sails,” Mordred says. “I’d been planning to do the same thing to Arthur when I arrived. It’s why I followed you. And to make sure you didn’t get yourself into trouble, of course.” He smiles, sad, and it makes him look almost unbearably young despite the way that his injury has recently aged him. He begins to take a knee, shaking Arthur off when Arthur tries to stop him. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I was rash and foolish, and I nearly made an unfixable mistake. I know those are just words and they don’t change anything. But I mean them.”
Arthur, intensely uncomfortable, stops futilely trying to get Mordred to stand. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I almost killed you.”
“And I almost killed you back. I’d say, all-told, we’re even on that score, and the ledger is still in your favor on others. Come on.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mordred takes Arthur’s outstretched hands and gets to his feet. “If the queen permits it, I would also humbly ask to rejoin the knights of Camelot.”
Gwen and Merlin look at each other. For a moment Morgana wonders whether Gwen doesn’t have magic after all, whether the two of them aren’t communicating mind-to-mind. Yet Merlin and Gwen’s understanding of each other has never needed magic to be nearly total. Even their love for Arthur—for he is who they are no doubt both thinking of right now, and of his near-death at Camlann—is shared.
“If Arthur becomes knight captain,” Gwen says at last, “and he agrees to it, then yes—I’d be honored to have your service.”
Mordred, still holding onto his staff, bows to her. Then he seems to remember something. “Morgana, I’ve heard word from the other druids. Aithusa has come to them. She’s all right, though I don’t think she wants to come near the city. Not yet, anyway.”
Relief washes over Morgana. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Aithusa?” Merlin sounds odd—sad. “I wonder if she remembers me.”
“She does,” Morgana says. “You named her. A dragon doesn't forget.”
“What do you mean, he named a dragon?” Arthur asks.
“Uh,” Merlin says. “You remember the dragon egg we went looking for a few years ago? It wasn’t destroyed like I said it was.” His face has gone pink. “You’re sure she remembers, Morgana? It’s just—well, she couldn’t speak to me....”
“She can sometimes manage the mindspeech. Less often than she used to, before...well, before. But she’s getting better, I think.”
“Sorry,” Arthur interrupts again. “Mindspeech?”
Merlin laughs at the look on Arthur’s face, warm genuine laughter. “I’ll tell you about it later, okay?”
“I’d be interested, as well,” says Gwen. Her eyes meet Morgana's. She hasn’t said anything this whole conversation, but Morgana has not been unaware of her: has been aware, in fact, of little else, though she has tried not to think about it, not to linger.
“Right,” Arthur says, suddenly brisk. “We’ve got loads to do, haven’t we, Merlin?”
“I don’t—”
“Let’s go, then.” Arthur takes Merlin’s arm and steers him towards the door. Mordred follows, not quite meeting Leon and Gwaine’s eyes on his way out. Arthur says something to Leon and Gwaine that somehow convinces them to leave the room as well, but they refuse to go farther than that, lingering in the hallway, watching over their queen.
“I wonder what that’s about,” says Gwen.
Morgana feels herself blushing. “I wouldn’t know.” Trust Arthur to take now as the chance to act like the all-knowing older brother, as if Morgana can ever say anything to Gwen about how she still feels. Not after all that she’s done.
“I should go to my rooms,” Gwen says at last. “Write up the decrees to give Merlin and Arthur their new positions.”
“The magic users haven’t agreed about Arthur yet.”
“I think they will. Oh!” Gwen’s sudden alarm makes Morgana jump. “Morgana, your things, we just left them in the hall....”
“I’m sure they’re all right,” Morgana starts to say; but Gwen takes her by the hand and leads her out of the room. Leon and Gwaine follow several paces behind, pretending not to listen. Morgana can only focus on that shared point of contact, her and Gwen’s joined hands.
They retrieve Morgana’s things and carry them to her old rooms. Leon and Gwaine do not follow them inside, apparently trusting, however grudgingly, that Morgana means no harm. If only they knew. Morgana sets the chests in the corner of her old chambers, hyper-aware of Gwen’s presence, sensitive to her every move, her every breath. She feels as if she has stepped outside before a thunderstorm, everything standing on the brink of everything else.
Gwen lingers, saying little, looking through the books and jewelry that belonged to Morgana’s parents. She touches the leather spines, separates some of the tangled necklaces and inspects them, examining the tarnishing. She looks as if she is working herself up to saying something but has not yet convinced herself to do it. She swallows. She picks up and puts down one of the books, a battered journal that Morgana has not read, that belonged to Gorlois, written in his scrawling near-indecipherable hand.
“Do you miss your father?” Morgana asks.
“Very much.” Gwen stands back, closes the chests. “I still have all of his things, too—Elyan has some of them.”
Morgana takes a breath. Steadies herself. “How is he?”
“Elyan?” Gwen glances at Morgana, impassive, still in the midst of some sort of internal struggle with herself. How little consideration she has been given, Morgana thinks—how little respect and love and gratitude. Gwen stands alone now, the ruler of Camelot, and she has had to distance herself from everyone to whom she was once close, either out of self-preservation or duty. She’s lost her husband—Morgana does not know whether she and Arthur can still be technically considered married, but in any respect it doesn't really matter, because their relationship seems, in all romantic respects, to have ended when Arthur made his decision to abdicate the throne and choose Merlin instead. He hadn’t thought at the time that that was what he was doing, but it had been. And so these past two months Gwen has spent alone, adjusting to her new role, no doubt missing Arthur desperately even while she was angry with him—missing Merlin even though she resented him. If she missed Morgana, and Morgana does not know whether Gwen did, then surely that had been mixed with anger and resentment, too. Morgana had Mordred and the druids to return to, for all the chilliness of their reception; Arthur had Merlin. Who has Gwen had?
“He’s doing better," Gwen says. "Nearly fully recovered, I think.” She pauses. “He didn’t like my decision to let you go.”
“I can imagine. I...I should like to speak to him, if he agrees to it. Not now, of course. But if I can apologize to him—make it up to him—I don’t know whether there’s anything that would be enough. But I’d like to try.”
Gwen watches her, studying her. Morgana makes herself bear the scrutiny, feeling her heart pump blood, her lungs draw breath. “Why?” asks Gwen.
Morgana cannot last any longer. She looks away and takes a shallow, wavering breath. “It’s the right thing to do.”
Gwen almost smiles. “So what?”
That’s not what Morgana expected. “What?”
Gwen takes a step towards Morgana. If she is still struggling with herself, she doesn’t show it. She tilts her head, close enough to Morgana now that she has to look up to meet Morgana’s gaze. “It’s the right thing to do—so what? Is that really why you want to do it?”
“I....” It is impossible to look away now. Gwen is so close, and Morgana wants her so much. What they once shared together, long ago, is impossibly far away and unbearably close: untouchable, unreachable, unavoidable, unsayable. Morgana realizes, too late, that she had loved her, loved Gwen, loved her more than anyone else. She still does. “I missed you.”
“Oh, yes. Missed me so much that you used me to try and kill Arthur, used me as bait to nearly kill my own brother.”
“I know.” Morgana’s voice is a whisper. Try as she might, she cannot find the strength to speak any louder. “I should never have done those things. I thought it was seeing you as queen that made me hate you—I didn’t hate you—I told myself I did, because I could make myself believe it. But I....” Morgana presses her teeth into her lower lip, tries to stop shaking. Don’t say it, she tells herself. You don’t deserve to say it. Gwen deserves better than this—better than you. And so you can’t say it.
“Tell me,” says Gwen.
And Morgana, desperate, missing her, wanting her, does. “I cared about you more than I cared about anyone. Gwen, when I left Camelot, I couldn’t bear to think—I didn’t know what would happen if you knew what I was. I was too afraid to tell you. I should have—I could have—I know now it wouldn’t have mattered. You wouldn’t’ve.... But I was too afraid. I thought you would hate me, so I turned on you before you had the chance. I made you hate me so I could pretend it was my choice. I’m so.... I’m sorry, Gwen.”
It’s not enough. It may never be enough. But it’s all Morgana has. She can learn, she thinks, to live with it. If she must.
Gwen says nothing. She is still so near, the two of them sharing warmth, sharing breath. Morgana stands ramrod-straight, as if she has slid iron into her spine to keep herself upright. Gwen is beautiful—she is always beautiful—the wine-red of her dress, the sparkle of her eyes, the slight movement at the corners of her mouth, like she can’t decide whether to laugh or cry, to frown or smile. Still she does not look away. Still she stands there, not stepping back, not re-establishing the distance between them. She has taken all that distance away. Morgana, at last, has nothing else left to hide.
“I thought you’d forgotten,” Gwen says softly. “I thought you didn’t remember, or didn’t care to remember, or that it didn’t matter to you anymore. That maybe it never did.”
“Forgotten what?”
“Us. When we were young.”
“We’re still young,” Morgana whispers.
“It doesn’t feel like it.” Gwen’s hand comes up—hesitates—and gently touches Morgana’s face. “I would have done anything for you then, Morgana. I thought.... When you left, I told myself it didn’t matter anymore. You never said a word about it, never acknowledged it again. But it did matter. It still does. It was real, and even though we were young and stupid and we’re not anymore—or maybe we are”—she smiles—“it happened, and I’ve thought about it so often since. When Arthur and I were together, I was happy. I really was. I didn’t want anyone else. But now he’s....” She shakes her head. She looks near tears. “He’s made his choice. I can even understand it, because I’ve always wondered—well, whether things could ever have been different.”
“They could have been.” But Morgana steels herself. She can’t take the easy way out—can’t let herself off the hook for everything that she’s done. She’s made her choices, as surely as Arthur has. And she can learn to live with them. Because she has to live with them. “But they weren’t.”
“No,” Gwen says. “You’re right.”
But she does not step away. And Morgana does not step away.
There is a moment—a long endless moment, a moment in which Morgana thinks of a hundred possibilities, a thousand, every imaginable direction that this moment can take, each spiraling off the main pathway of her life like a labyrinth, unspooling possibility and probability and likelihood like a hand scattering roses, petals falling where they may, whole lifetimes of opportunity opening and closing like the eyes of the universe watching them, dark alleyways of thought branching and re-branching, stretching off towards the event horizon of the real, the place where self and world meet, their touch as gentle as moth-wings, interlacing, interlocking, the universe understanding itself—there is a moment, and then Gwen moves closer. And Morgana moves closer. The endless doors of possibility slam shut.
Their mouths meet.
epilogue.
Arthur wakes up to an armful of laundry thrown into his face. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Merlin says cheerfully, throwing back the curtains to their bedroom to let the sun stream in. Arthur squints into the sudden light, groans, and rolls over, curling into a ball and holding the laundry over his face. It smells like fresh soap and Merlin. He takes a long breath.
The mattress dips as Merlin sits on its edge. “We’ve got a council meeting in, oh, an hour. You better get your ass up and moving if you want to make it to breakfast on time, or Gwen will have your head.”
“Really, you say the sweetest things,” Arthur grumbles. Merlin reaches for the clothes and Arthur snatches after them, but Merlin is too quick and starts laying them out on the bed, examining them critically. He holds one of Arthur’s tunics up to the light, nods, and sets it aside for Arthur to wear. It is a familiar ritual, this morning moment between them—reminiscent of what their lives once were. But they are not who they used to be. They’re better. They are, in a way that they never were then, equals. Partners.
But Arthur still has trouble with mornings. That much, at least, is constant. “What're we supposed to be advising on today?”
“Tariffs,” Merlin says, still cheerful. “And the shield wards I’ve been working on, but mostly tariffs.”
Arthur groans. “Can’t I just stay here? I’m knight captain, not the goddamn fiduciary.”
“Sadly, we both know your areas of expertise extend far beyond repeatedly hitting men over the head with a sword. Come on. Gwen and Morgana are expecting us, and I told them we wouldn’t be late this time.”
“Don’t know why you’d tell them something like that.” Arthur begrudgingly sits upright and puts his feet on the floor. It takes a tremendous amount of effort. “Why you’d betray me like that.”
Merlin smiles. It has been one year since Camlann, one year since Avalon. One year since Merlin was made royal sorcerer and Arthur made knight captain, one year since the two of them moved into their own chambers in the castle to fulfill their roles as advisors to the queen. It has been a year, and Merlin looks happy—truly happy, deeply happy. He puts his hands on either side of Arthur’s face and kisses him. Arthur turns his face to Merlin’s, lets himself fall upwards into the kiss. He feels Merlin smiling, almost laughing. He puts his hands on Merlin’s waist, presses with his fingertips.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Merlin says. “It won’t work.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Merlin kisses Arthur’s nose. “Come on, I’ve filled the basin so you can wash your face. The water will wake you up.”
Arthur, grumbling, gets to his feet and wanders over to the basin, dipping his hands into the cool clear water. Merlin is right, it does help. As he dries off afterwards, Arthur watches Merlin fold the rest of the laundry and put it away, whistling to himself. Purple and gold sparks flash at his fingertips every so often, innate magic bubbling over. Arthur tosses aside the towel and takes Merlin’s hands. Merlin looks at him, puzzled.
“I love you,” Arthur says. It is not the first time he has said it. It is not even the hundredth time.
Merlin smiles. “And I love you,” he says quietly. “Come on. Let’s get going.”
They leave their chambers together, matching each other’s stride without thought, with the ease of long practice.
Morgana wakes up to Gwen shifting beside her in their bed, then pressing a kiss to Morgana’s mouth. “Good morning,” Gwen says softly.
Morgana pulls Gwen back in for another kiss, her hand tangling in Gwen’s long curly hair. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Gwen smiles against Morgana’s mouth. “We should get up. Arthur and Merlin are coming over for breakfast.”
“Mm.” Morgana makes no move to do so, trailing her hand through Gwen’s hair, looking into her eyes, their warm brown color that holds light so well, holds it and amplifies it, turns it gold, makes it real. “They’ll be late.”
Gwen presses their mouths together again. “You sound sure of that.”
“It’s Arthur, and it’s before ten, so yes, I’m sure.”
Gwen laughs. “Still. We have things to do.”
“Have we?” Morgana tilts her face towards Gwen’s, looks at her. They are so close that they are sharing breath. Morgana’s free hand slides over Gwen’s back, slow, up and down, the reassurance of touch, the reminder of shared warmth. Gwen’s face is open, honest: hiding nothing. There is no hindrance upon the tenderness in her expression, a gentleness that Morgana had felt, for a very long time, that she did not deserve. But a lot can change in a year; with enough time, everything. And Morgana has done her best, done all that she can, to make things right. To be worthy of that gentleness—to not only receive it but to return it in kind. To let Gwen know that she is loved, loved dearly, loved deeply.
Gwen begins to push back the blankets. Morgana catches her by the hand. “Stay.”
Gwen lifts her eyebrow. Morgana feels herself blushing—still, after all this time—and makes herself shoulder through it. “Please.”
Gwen smiles. “As if I need convincing.” She laughs a little when Morgana pulls her down into another kiss. Gwen’s touch is steady and sure, and she is unhesitating, sliding her hand beneath Morgana’s nightgown and pressing against her hip. Morgana lifts herself into her touch, wanting it, cherishing it. They kiss, and kiss, and when Morgana can take the still-remaining distance between them no more, she pulls Gwen on top of her, the two of them moving against each other. Gwen traches her hand over Morgana’s skin, her fingertips trailing beneath Morgana’s breast. Morgana shivers.
“All right?” Gwen breathes. Morgana nods. She hugs herself against Gwen, puts her face against Gwen’s hair, breathing deeply, loving the scent of her, her once-again familiar presence. She nearly lost Gwen forever—nearly chose to give this up, give up her. What a mistake that would have been, an unforgivable, unlivable mistake. There is nothing else that Morgana wants now that she has this: now that she has Gwen, and Gwen has her.
Gwen’s fingers brush over Morgana’s nipple and Morgana inhales, taking Gwen’s breath right out of her mouth. “I love you,” she says, before she can help it.
Gwen pauses. She looks at Morgana, unbearably close, the brown of her eyes turning light into gold. “You love me?”
Morgana nods. For a moment they're both still, unmoving. Gwen has pressed her hand flat to Morgana’s chest, her palm directly over Morgana’s heart. Morgana can feel her pulse there, in her ears, between her legs. Something compels her forward, keeps her talking. “I have for a long time. You might not think.... But it’s true.”
Gwen does not move; she hardly seems to draw breath. “How long?”
“Since before I left Camelot,” Morgana says. “Long before.”
For a long time Gwen says nothing. She looks at Morgana as if trying to break her apart into something that she can understand. Her throat works, and Morgana can’t tell if she will smile or cry—can’t tell whether she should have said anything, whether it was selfish to tell Gwen this or not. But it has been a painfully-held truth in this past year. She can keep it no longer.
“I didn’t know,” Gwen says at last. She is whispering. “I didn’t know. I never thought.... I knew you cared for me. Or I thought I knew. When you left I told myself it never meant anything, because otherwise it hurt too much, but I never...I could never believe it. It meant too much.”
Morgana tries to smile, wavers. “I should have told you sooner—should have said, then. Or not done all the things I did afterwards. Gwen....”
“Oh, don’t.” Gwen kisses her. “Don’t. It’s all right now, Morgana. It is. It’s all right.” She pauses, her thumb brushing over Morgana’s skin, her mouth pressed against Morgana’s neck. Then she pulls away and looks at her. “I love you, too.”
Morgana’s smile comes in pieces, shy. “You do?”
“Yes.” Gwen kisses her. “I do.”
They keep kissing, for longer this time. They have forgotten all about breakfast, all about the council meeting. Gwen touches Morgana’s breast and Morgana twists beneath her, running her hands up Gwen’s back, over her smooth skin, feeling their heartrates quicken. This is what it has all been for—what everything has been moving towards, inexorably, like a needle drawing thread, Morgana caught in the stitching, Gwen reaching out her hand and pulling her through. Gwen removes Morgana’s nightgown, allows Morgana to remove hers. Morgana looks up at her, her hands on Gwen’s knees, Gwen’s thighs braced on either side of Morgana’s hips, the two of them just looking at each other, Gwen’s fingers entwining with Morgana’s, squeezing. “I love you,” Morgana says again.
Gwen’s smile is bright, happy. “So you’ve said.” She moves so that she is no longer on top of Morgana but beside her, kissing her neck, her shoulder. She presses her hand to Morgana’s stomach and the touch makes goosebumps rise on Morgana’s skin, the hair on her arms standing on end. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Saying it, maybe.”
Morgana swallows, feeling her throat constrict. “Thank you for letting me.”
Gwen snorts. “As if I’ve ever let you do anything.” Her fingers brush against Morgana’s underthings. A fingertip slips beneath the hem. She presses her mouth against the side of Morgana’s neck, takes a breath in. “May I?”
Morgana nods. Gwen slides her hand beneath the fabric, pushes it off with Morgana’s help. With her other arm beneath Morgana’s neck, she turns Morgana’s face to hers and kisses her. When her fingers slide between Morgana’s labia, Morgana sighs, puts her arms around Gwen and holds her close. “Faster,” she breathes, “just a little.”
Gwen complies. Morgana’s breath hitches, and a tremor starts in her left leg, one that she can’t stop. She wants to touch Gwen back, wants to hold her impossibly close and never let her go. She presses her left hand against Gwen’s hip, digs her fingers in, shuddering every now and then as Gwen’s competent fingers slide over her clitoris. She touches Gwen’s thigh, first the outside, then the inside. Gwen sucks in a breath. She sees Morgana looking at her, nods. Morgana slips her hand between Gwen’s legs and starts, as best she can while Gwen is fucking her, to match her pace.
Gwen makes an appreciative noise, and her head falls back, showing the line of her neck. Morgana presses a kiss against it. She scrapes her teeth gently against Gwen’s skin and Gwen gasps, huh. “Right there.”
Morgana nods, tries to keep doing what she’s doing, but it's growing harder by the second. Soon enough she can’t hold on any longer. She withdraws her hand and puts her arms around Gwen, saying her name, feeling herself threaded to the brink. A few moments later she comes with her face pressed against Gwen’s neck, crying out, her legs shaking as she clutches Gwen’s shoulders. Gwen holds her through it, her hand repeating its same ineluctable movements, fucking Morgana through her orgasm. Finally Morgana can take no more and she takes Gwen’s hand, squeezes it. Gwen stops and holds her and kisses her.
When Morgana can think again, she puts her hand back between Gwen’s legs. Gwen sighs and lies back against the bed, one of her hands twisting in the bedsheets, her breath coming in uneven bursts. Morgana watches her, unable to look away, slipping her thumb over Gwen’s clit repeatedly, watching Gwen tremble, twist, take a breath.
“Morgana....”
“Mm?” Morgana moves to kneel between Gwen’s legs, still watching her, her thumb still moving. Her other hand she trails up the back of Gwen’s thigh. “Go on, sweetheart,” she says. “I’ve got you.”
Gwen comes against Morgana’s hand, her whole body trembling, her wrist pressed against her mouth. Finally she stops shaking and Morgana curls up next to her, pulls her close, holds her and the two of them lie there for a while, not moving, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight streaming in from their window, between their bodies.
After a while Gwen hums something, kisses Morgana’s temple. “We can’t go back to sleep.”
“Mmh,” Morgana says.
“Merlin and Arthur will be here any minute.”
“So?” But Morgana sits up anyway, stretching, smiling when Gwen presses a kiss against her collarbone, above her heart. “I love you,” she says. Now that she’s said it, she can’t stop saying it.
Gwen smiles. “I’ve heard.” But she holds Morgana’s face in her hands. “I love you.” She kisses Morgana’s forehead and then gets up, yawning, to head to the washroom. “Can you find my purple dress? I gave Eleanor the morning off, and I thought I knew where it was but I can’t find it anywhere.”
Morgana pads over to the wardrobe. “It’s here, at the back.”
“Oh, good.” Gwen returns in her underclothes and hands Morgana her robe. She starts putting on the dress, struggling a little with its many layers and clasps.
Morgana puts her hands on Gwen’s shoulders and kisses the back of her neck. “Let me help you.” Gently, with precision, she threads the dress’s laces through its closures, making sure everything is properly fastened, not too tight. She loves this dress on Gwen—but then again she loves anything on Gwen, and quite often nothing, too. Gwen stands before the mirror, watching Morgana in it, not saying anything, holding her long hair out to one side to keep it out of the way. “There.”
Gwen turns and catches Morgana’s wrist before she steps away. She pulls her close, kisses her. When they break apart, Gwen’s eyes are shining. “I’ll send for breakfast. You get dressed.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Morgana says, and smirks when Gwen glares at her.
Merlin and Arthur arrive at the royal chambers just before the food does, and they knock on the door to announce themselves. Gwen opens it and smiles at them both, hugging them. She and Merlin get to talking almost immediately about the council business awaiting them that morning, a lot of complicated discussion about magical overlays and wards, which Merlin has been placing around the city walls these past few months, sometimes with Morgana’s help. But Morgana doesn’t bother getting into the details with them right now, instead taking a tray of food brought by one of the servants and setting it on the table. Arthur does the same with the other tray, starts pouring water from one of the pitchers. He is watching Merlin and Gwen, his expression gentle, charmed.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he says to Morgana.
“What is?”
“Them. Us, I mean. We both fell in love with our servants.”
Morgana, not expecting that, snorts. “Yes, I suppose we did.”
“And now look at us.” But Arthur is smiling. He is, Morgana knows, happy; the way Merlin is happy, the way Gwen is happy, the way Morgana is happy after all their long years of unhappiness, of loneliness and grief.
Yes, Morgana thinks, watching him, watching Merlin and Gwen, wanting to smile and then doing so because she can, because she does not need to hide it anymore—look at us now.