Chapter Text
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PART I: DÍEGOLNES
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“No,” Morgana said, “it wasn’t one of those dreams, not this time.”
It was early.
So soon in the morning, Merlin wasn’t even out of his nightclothes—the sun just-rising. Chill was still sleeping in the physician’s chambers—which were tolerable only under blankets, and with hot food and drink. Before dawn, Gaius had been summoned to treat a sick courtier, leaving Merlin alone and awake too soon.
Morgana had come, in the wake of a nightmare.
“I can’t explain how I know,” she said, “but it was different.”
He frowned, listening. Since everything—the fire in her tower, her magic, and the incident with the Druids—Merlin had been seeing a lot of her. They were getting used to this: Merlin, inviting her in, sitting together while the castle slowly came awake.
“Different than when… when it’s magic?” Merlin said.
“Yes,” Morgana said. “Different.”
He’d fixed them tea, and offered her his bed quilt; she was curled up at the table in her nightgown and robe, huddled under it, as Merlin shouldered a blanket. Despite her few years on him, Morgana seemed so young without jewels, without the colour she put on her lips and eyes. Both of them warmed their hands on the steaming mugs, and sipped carefully. The tea was hot.
“I dreamt that Uther found out what I was,” she said, “and I was sent to burn at the stake. But I know it wasn’t a vision. It was just…”
I have the same nightmare, Merlin thought.
“Just fear?” he said.
Morgana nodded.
I know exactly what you’re going through.
It should have been strange: how Morgana would find him pre-dawn, or invite him to her chambers, late at night. It should have felt strange for her to confide deep, fearful truths. But it wasn’t, really. They’d part, and he would think of Will—and of the confessions he’d taken to his grave.
Will’s cott was twilit in his memories, scented with fresh wood. Merlin cheated at games with magic, and Will let him win. The creek they played in as children still stank of summer heat and humid pollen. It was all vivid now, now that he was gone—so sharp that Merlin was sure he was imagining half of it.
But what was real was: that he’d been alone, and afraid of himself, and Will had helped him not to be. Merlin knew what it meant to be a secret-keeper. How important it was to be a confidant.
“It won’t ever come to that,” Merlin said.
“How can you be sure?”
Of course, he wasn’t sure (how could anyone be?) but he said,
“I’ve got good instincts.”
And she laughed, so he thought she was charmed by his quips, comforted by his friendship. Success! By now, the tea had cooled enough not to burn his tongue, and he sipped. The steam was sweet.
“Thank you, Merlin,” she said, and he was glad to see her smile.
For some long moments, neither of them said anything.
The silence was companiable, and the room brightened in degrees of pale yellow—rising a day of young spring. Through the window, wagons clattered into the courtyard, and the early chaffinches tittered. Sometimes, in these silences, he imagined telling her about his magic.
I’m like you, he might’ve said. I’ve got magic, too.
But he never found the courage.
The recklessness, as Gaius would have said.
Morgana wasn’t like Will—it was much more complicated, with her status. She wasn’t the one who kept secrets, she was the one who confided them. Gaius kept reminding him.
“You’re a good friend, Merlin,” she said, saving him from himself. “I’m glad… glad there’s someone I can talk to, about all of this.”
Unlike Arthur, who (aside from the briefest moments of direct earnestness) confided in him without meeting his eyes—who thought aloud as he dressed or ate, and forgot Merlin was the one listening—Morgana was looking right at him. The worry lines on her forehead were gone now; her colour had returned.
“Thanks,” Merlin said, touched. “Of course.”
‘Course I won’t tell, Will said. Who do you think I am, a lord’s informer?
Morgana put her mug down, and traced her finger around the circular rim. Her nails were blunt and smooth, surely Gwen’s careful work. And then he was thinking of Gwen: with her open, understanding heart. Morgana’s usual confidante. What would Gwen say if she knew?
Merlin couldn’t imagine Gwen being cruel, but still. Anyone knowing was dangerous. And selfish. Because what if the King found out? Affiliation in itself was a crime. The more it was talked about, the more risks they were taking. He’d learned that from his mother.
Morgana’s face eclipsed behind the round bottom of her mug as she finished her tea, and then pushed it over. Merlin shrugged off his blanket and went to clear their cups. As he lingered by the dish bin at the window, he saw the courtyard outside. It had rained in the night, and the flagstones were glossy.
Footsteps, coming up the corridor. Merlin turned his head.
“Ah,” he said, “that’s Gaius.”
“I should go.” Morgana gave him his quilt back. He bunched it up and threw it in the direction of his bedroom steps.
“Right,” he said. “Er—take your sleeping draught?”
She cast him a look. “You know those don’t help.”
“I know,” he said. “But it’s an excuse?”
To keep visiting the physician’s chambers, and for him to come see her.
“Oh,” she said. “Right. Yes, please.”
He went to fetch it.
At some point, Gaius was going to notice the missing bottles that she never brought back, but she could always pour them out when it came to that. He wished she wasn’t still skittish around Gaius, but it had been frightening, and frustrating—she said—not to be believed, at the beginning. There was nothing he could do about that now, even if Gaius understood about magic better than most.
When she took the bottle from him, there was warmth in her round, pale eyes. He couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at him the way Morgana did.
“Thank you,” she said. Soft, “Have a good day, Merlin.”
My day involves laundering Arthur’s socks, so—
“You, too,” he said.
She left with the bottle in hand, and passed Gaius as she did.
My lady. Gaius.
Then she was gone.
Gaius entered smelling of coriander and honey. He looked exhausted: ready to go back to sleep, and take the morning.
“Was everything alright with that lord?” Merlin said. Gaius hummed an affirmative, and told Merlin to start some breakfast pottage.
“What was Morgana doing here?” he said, as Merlin put the pot on.
Merlin didn’t say she wanted to talk about magic. Her dreams: troubled when not prophetic. He didn’t tell Gaius that she thought often of the Druids, and missed them like they were family. It was a silly fantasy—Morgana, a noblewoman, living in the woods—but whenever she spoke of it, she was certain. I belonged there, she said.
And of course, the Druids had loved Morgana. She was easy to love. Merlin envied how quickly she had accepted her own magic.
“She came for her sleeping draught,” Merlin told Gaius.
I know now who I really am, she’d said. And it isn't something to be scared of.
He admired that. Merlin wished he had a courtier’s pride.
*
Morgana sat prim. That evening, she ate with Uther and Arthur, dining at the long council table while Gwen drifted from cup to cup and served them. Roasted venison and stewed carrot steamed in the flickering candle light as Uther consumed his meal—cutting meat from bone. He touched his lips with wine; the lined pucker of his mouth pursed. Every day, some new facet of Morgana’s life came to her in ugly clarity.
She thought of being on a runaway horse; once, when she was young, she’d found herself caught on one. The discomfort of the animal between her legs had begun quietly. Its wide, muscular sides tensed and flexed. By fourteen, she’d already been an experienced rider, and felt the change. She remembered squeezing the rein, but her horse didn’t slow. It was like that now—had been like that since she was forced to leave the Druids—like being on a horse ready to bolt. Her very skin chafed.
At dinner, a messenger arrived for Uther. He bore a scroll, delivered it, then scurried away. They weren’t talking, and Uther unfurled it to read.
“What is that?” Arthur said, putting down his goblet.
“Don’t concern yourself.” Uther didn’t look up. “It’s not good dinner conversation.”
Across the table from each other, Arthur and Morgana shared a look, and she rolled her eyes.
“But, important, my lord?” she said. For him to be taking it at the table. Uther sighed.
“If you must know,” he said, “it’s a list of names—people under suspicion in the lower town. For affiliating.”
Morgana, on a horse that wouldn’t slow, tried to sit down in the saddle, but it didn’t relax the animal. Uther raised a stiff brow at her. See? he was saying, nothing you would care about. Except she did, in fact, care. It wasn’t hard to infer what affiliation these people were suspicious of.
“These are the people transporting grain towards the Forest of Ascetir?” Arthur said.
“The same.”
“For what purpose?” Morgana said. “Has that been determined yet?”
“…No,” Arthur said. “Not… for certain.”
Morgana had never noticed how thick everything was in excess. The table spread was rich: dark wine and precious-metal candlesticks. On her plate: red meat, plump carrots in a melted butter roux. The teeth of Morgana’s knife caught and caught and caught.
“How do we get a list of names like that?” she said to Uther. Arthur tensed, and tried to catch her eye, but she ignored him.
“They were reported,” Uther said, “by their neighbours, who were concerned.”
Gwen was refilling Arthur’s wine, and stiffened near-imperceptibly. She took the serving pitcher back against the wall as Uther continued:
“Arthur, I want you to lead your men out tomorrow to arrest these people.”
He slid the scroll and its red-velvet ribbon across the table. Arthur took, it though Morgana could see he was uneasy. She waited for him to protest, and when he didn’t, anger gestated inside her.
“I don’t see why,” she said. “These people haven’t done anything.”
She couldn’t bite her tongue; maybe the problem was that she didn’t want to. When her horse had begun to canter, she hadn’t tried hard enough to slow it. She’d always liked speed.
“Morgana, really.” Uther’s knife screeched across his plate.
“They could be bringing food to hungry travellers. What’s wrong with that?”
“They’re clearly supplying the Druids. Surely you can see the danger.”
“You don’t even know that—a moment ago, Arthur said it was uncertain.”
Caution told her she should’ve pretended to be afraid of the Druids—after all, she’d supposedly just been their captive. But the truth of this was too horrific: people turned on, turned in, by friends they’d probably trusted. And here was Arthur, pretending not to see it.
If you knew what I am, she thought, would you turn me in? Out of concern?
Uther scowled. “I shouldn’t have answered this,” he said. “I know how these matters upset you, especially after your ordeal.”
She bristled. “It upsets me that these things happen at all—that you encourage people to betray each other.”
Instead of responding, Uther picked up his goblet and sloshed it around, before drinking. She heard him gulp noisily, like this would just disappear if he ignored her long enough. As if, given time, she would become stupider.
“Arthur,” Uther said, lowering his cup, “do you have enough assigned men for tomorrow?”
“You can’t keep me from knowing what goes on in my own kingdom,” Morgana snapped.
“I can damn well try, especially if this is how you react!” Uther’s silverware clattered as he brought his fist down. She’d made him angry now. Good. So was she. Gwen, demure in the corner, lowered her eyes to the ground.
“I won’t have you,” Uther said, “humiliating me—and yourself—every time you walk into court. Clear your head, and address me again.”
He was looking for an apology, but he wasn’t about to get it. Morgana was furious. Years ago, had a part of her wanted the horse to go faster? Had it sensed? Was that why it hadn’t slowed?
The wine in Morgana’s goblet shimmered, like the surface of water did just before it boiled. It would boil, she realised, if she sat here too long. It would boil over, and hit the table with a hiss. Suddenly, she was pulling hard on the rein, to no avail.
Her chair scraped loudly as she forced it back.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing. “My lords, I find myself no longer hungry.”
But she wasn’t looking for approval, and was already halfway to the doors when Uther said,
“Fine, you’re dismissed.”
Tearing out into the corridor, the cold was embracing. Her heart was beating very fast. Behind her, Uther raised his voice at Arthur, but she didn’t care. She turned the corner, and then sagged against the wall, alone.
What Morgana told no one—not even Merlin—was that sometimes, she had the distinct impression not of riding, but of being. She couldn’t explain without sounding mad, but sometimes the runaway horse was inside of her. It was moving—the sinew of its muscle working in her arms and legs. It was stabled behind her ribs, breathing through her throat.
A few moments later, she heard someone following her. She recognized the steps.
Gwen came around the corner, holding her skirt in one hand. The sight of her soothed Morgana, and for this moment at least, the sensation of being a trapped horse needing to run receded.
“Gwen,” she said.
“I’ll bring something up for you later, from the kitchens,” Gwen said, brows pinched. “You hardly ate.”
“Thank you,” Morgana said. She picked herself up, and they began to walk to her chambers. It was quiet. At this time of evening, the hallways were empty, and they were alone.
She wondered if all that talk of affiliating, and betrayal, and punishment, made Gwen think of her father. His loss stung Gwen like grief, and Morgana like failure.
“I’m sorry,” Morgana said. “Was that difficult for you?”
Gwen shook her head too fast. “I don’t want you worrying about me.”
But Morgana did. She thought she always would. Gwen was soft in the starlight coming through the windows: the shadows of her face illusioned in shades of blushing mulberry. Morgana wanted to brush back her stray hair, caught partially in her long lashes. But she didn’t.
*
They went up her spiral tower steps, and arrived in Morgana’s chambers: mono-blue dark, and cold. Gwen took a rushlight from the vial on the table and lit it from the torch in the hall, going around to light the room as Morgana sat at her vanity and pulled pins from her hair. The room began to glow as she dropped them into the dish. Clink. Clink. She could see Gwen reflected in the mirror, stealing glances, astute.
“What is it?” Morgana said. Gwen was by the bed, doing up the sheets. She paused with a pillow in her hand.
“…It’s nothing,” she said. “I mean, I don’t think it’s right to ask.”
“Ask me anyway,” Morgana said. Another pause. Was Gwen going to mention the wine goblet, simmering without heat? Had she noticed? Did she know? Morgana was watching her through the mirror, and over her shoulder, Gwen scrunched up the pillow’s edges.
“What… what exactly happened,” she said, “while the Druids had you?”
She hadn’t expected that question—though it was obvious once Gwen said it. When Morgana turned around, a new candle danced at her nightstand, painting the bridge of Gwen’s nose like a coppery setting sun. Morgana draped one arm over the back of her chair. Merlin would have told her to be more careful, but Gwen made her bold.
“I saw the boy again,” Morgana answered truthfully, “and it’s become… so clear to me that they’re good people.”
“That doesn’t sound like you were their captive, like the King says.” Gwen was surprised, but not overly so.
“No,” Morgana admitted. “I was with the Druids of my own will. They deserve help, and I know if I were Queen, the laws would be different.”
And, she caught herself, I understand better than anyone, because I’m the same.
Gwen’s expression changed: a tilt of her head, tension around her lips. She was measuring this new information, but Morgana couldn’t tell what she thought about it.
“Does that frighten you?” Morgana said.
There was a long silence—long enough that Morgana worried she’d misjudged all of this, exposed too much to Gwen. She hoped not. In better dreams, I sleep with singing in my mind, she wanted to tell her. I watch a boy with eyes like mist grow up. And when she woke from these fantasies, there was a sense of loss—a piece of herself left back in those woods. She would be running until she was back there with people like her. The room was large between them, for such an illicit conversation. They should have been whispering.
“It doesn’t… frighten me,” Gwen said.
“Well, then…?”
Gwen bit her lip, chewed on it, then stopped. She put the pillow down, and appeared terribly shrewd: the bold curves of her face—where the candlelight didn’t touch—made her regal.
“That talk is treason, Morgana,” she said, hushed. “If the King heard any of that…” but she stopped. Morgana knew already.
“Are you worried that he might hear, or that I’m saying it at all?”
“I… don’t know.” Gwen shook her head, and as she began tugging the bedsheets smooth, Morgana realised what she was doing—remembered why they were here in the first place, and not back in the council chambers having dinner. The crime of magic had many forms, some of them as simple as transporting grain, or having the wrong conversations. She was endangering her.
“I’m sorry,” Morgana said. “I shouldn’t be saying these things.”
“No—” Gwen put the sheets down, looked pleading at her. “I asked. Don’t—don’t be sorry.”
But Morgana was. Her hands in her lap were shaking. She turned back around and saw herself in the mirror, half-undone. I can never tell you about what I am. No matter how much I want to. She saw Gwen, again reflected, standing unsurely still.
“Come help me with my hair?” Morgana said.
She heard Gwen come over, and her deft fingers began unworking the braids at the back of Morgana’s head. She shivered as her hair came loose. She was spoiled, really, just to have Merlin. She needed to be content with that. But never could she inflict her secret on Gwen: who’d faced the pyre once herself, and lost her father for the crime of loving her. Love was dangerous, under Uther’s rule.
“I worry about you.” Gwen was soft with her.
“I don’t want you to worry about me,” Morgana said, though she knew there was no helping it.
*
“You should have seen them, at dinner,” Arthur muttered, changing behind the screen, shucking his tunic over the top. Merlin, doing his evening chores, pulled it over and delivered it to the laundry basket.
“What happened?” he said.
“They got into it, again. Father took a scroll in the middle of dinner and it turned into this… stupid row.”
“Over… table… courtesy?” Merlin said. The details of court life were still utterly ridiculous to him.
“Well, no.” Arthur sighed. “It actually became about… He was delivered this report of names: people in the lower town suspected of—of affiliating with sorcerers.”
Ah. Then perhaps it was a good thing that Merlin hadn’t been the one serving, tonight. It would have been a complete tossup about holding his tongue or not.
Is it any wonder sorcerers are coming left and right to attack the throne? he said in an imagining where he was standing on the King’s dinner table for some reason. You only arrest and kill innocent people every other day!
His mother had always scolded him for not having enough restraint.
“Mm, right,” Merlin said.
He pulled a nightshirt out of Arthur’s wardrobe and tossed it over the screen, kicking the laundry basket into the corner. He was familiar with Arthur’s chambers by now: the lived-in evening clutter was somewhat comforting, though Arthur hated it. The sconces were all lit, and the fire in the hearth was just starting to burn itself out.
“Morgana walked out before dinner was even finished—with Guinevere,” Arthur continued. “So, Father had to send for a servant, which only made his mood worse. Seriously, it was a nightmare, Merlin.”
Finally, he came out from behind the screen, dressed for sleep: hair mussed, messy and human in his nightclothes. He ruffled himself into the bed’s lumpy sheets. Merlin went over to straighten everything out as Arthur rolled to and fro, letting him, unbothered.
“Right,” Merlin said. “Sounds unpleasant.”
“I don’t even know why she spoke up,” Arthur said. “She was defending the Druids.”
At that, he had Merlin’s full attention.
“She was?”
Morgana was being bold. Even stupid. It wasn’t that he disagreed with what she’d probably been saying, but to do so openly, and say it right to the King? Maybe he was beginning to understand how Gaius felt. But he supposed it was different for Morgana. Beloved by the King. Beloved by Arthur. When it came to the worst case, Merlin couldn’t imagine Arthur letting Morgana burn, even if Uther might go so far in a fit of rage. No matter what magic they shared, Merlin himself was no courtier, no well-loved lady. He was clumsy, and new, and strange.
“Yeah,” Arthur said. He lay on his back and flung an arm over his face. “I keep thinking… that she hasn’t been the same since her abduction. Nor has my father. They’re always at odds. And—my father said to me, after she’d gone, that he hardly knew her anymore. That if she kept behaving like this, he would have to begin…” but whatever Uther had said, Arthur seemed to think better of telling it to his servant, even if his servant was Merlin. “It doesn’t matter.”
Merlin didn’t pry. He could imagine.
His thought about the raid in the Forest of Ascetir; he saw a mud-smudge on Morgana’s white cheek. Soil and moss stung his nose as he sprinted through trees, baiting the Camelot soldiers to buy her an escape. Branches smarted his face, his heel twisted over roots.
And then—unbidden—there was Will again, young in a happier memory. Why?
Will was tugging at Merlin’s elbow, running through the forest during summer, along the babbling, glinting waters of the Ea. They stopped where the currents swirled and deepened, and judged the climb of rocks which had towered over them as boys.
Merlin shook away the memory, confused and sad, and finished making the bed. Arthur was still laying there, now frowning up at the canopy.
“That’s… a harsh thing to say,” Merlin offered.
Arthur didn’t reply, and turned on his side so they were looking at each other. His expression was unreadable, perhaps embarrassed. Weren’t they friends? Sometimes Arthur didn’t seem sure.
“…Isn’t it?” he asked Arthur. “That’s… harsh. To say he doesn’t know her anymore?” Even if—Merlin realised—it was true.
“I guess so,” Arthur said, rolling back away. “Anyway, it’s just that—that I feel I can hardly understand either of them. My father can be a strict man… but Morgana has never known how to keep her head down about it.”
“And what do you think?” Merlin broached. “About the situation at dinner?”
He was sort of hoping Arthur would reveal himself one way or the other. Did he really agree with his father, gathering the names of people sympathetic to magic? Persecuting the Druids? Did he think it was fair? Or would he take Morgana’s side, if pushed to make a choice? Would he take Merlin’s side, though he didn’t know it?
Arthur pouted, like he thought Merlin was setting him up to be mocked, so Merlin took the opportunity.
“I mean, since you think you know everything.”
Arthur scoffed, but ignored him.
If the Great Dragon was to be believed, Arthur would choose magic. Eventually, he would become a great king, and set the world right. He and Merlin were destined—so didn’t that mean, one day, he would see Merlin for what he was, and accept him for it?
But that prophecy was immaterial. Words and dreams. And according to the Great Dragon, Morgana was an evil witch. So what wisdom was there, really, in trusting him? Standing here, making Arthur’s bed while he fret over his family’s squabbles, was much more real.
You know how dangerous magic is, he heard Arthur say, while they watched Will burn.
There was a long moment—long enough that Merlin thought Arthur had tired of the subject—then,
“I think there’s… a rift between them,” Arthur mused. “It gets larger every day.”
His tone had changed. Merlin studied him, and found him sad. Vulnerable.
“And that rift worries you?” Merlin said.
“‘Course it worries me,” Arthur muttered, as if Merlin was being stupid. But his voice was thinner, his shoulders drawn up. Arthur turned his back to Merlin, so Merlin took that cue and stepped away, drawing the bed curtains.
Ten summers ago, Merlin and Will dangled their skinny legs off a rocky overhang, looking down at the water, far below. They told jokes, and confessed fears. Merlin used to be able to read his mind just by looking at him. No secrets between them. That memory was dimming: flashes of light and impressions of laughter. Merlin remembered falling from the overhang, into the pool of water and duckweed below. Had Will pushed him, or had he slipped? The world rushed past, exhilarating. Falling: joy and fear. Relief as cold water soothed his pale, sun-stung skin. Long past.
“I’ll get the candles?” Merlin said. Arthur muttered an assent, so Merlin went around and blew them out.
“Goodnight, sire,” he said.
“Goodnight, Merlin.”