Disclaimer/ N-A: Of course, I don't own Merlin, its characters, or anything related to BBC series. This story was inspired by a story by The-Lady-Isis. I won't spoil the fun, and tell you which one. Finally, I also own Shakespeare for his fantastic 'Much ado about nothing' comedy. I won't tell you about it either... Enjoy :)
I
She knows something is wrong. He doesn't look sad, or uneasy. He brags as much as he usually does. He trains, as hard as ever. He sees that his father's orders are carried out. He charms, and laughs and entertains their guests. But she knows something is wrong. For his smiles are not that warm, and rarely reach his eyes. For he pushes a little more, so exhaustion hits him. For, when he doesn't manage to avoid her, she reads hurt behind his mask of indifference.
Morgana knocks, and enters without waiting for an answer. He left the feast earlier than usual, and he is standing by his window now, his favourite spot. The courtyard is enlightened for the festival; she approaches him and follows his stare. Merlin is having fun with a game of some sort. She smiles for a brief instant, before trying to get his attention. He takes her hand from his arm, gently, but firmly.
« Please, don't. »
The mask of indifference is gone now. He does look sad. He does look sad and uneasy. Hurt. The urge to comfort him unsettles her a little, as much as his reaction to her. She hesitates. He is staring at the bright torches on the walls again. She kisses his cheek, lightly, and backs off, retreating to the door.
« Morgana. »
She turns to him, but he is not facing her, his stare still fixes on the lights below.
« I'm not my father. »
So that's it. She's the one responsible for his mood. It's not Gwen, longing after Lancelot. It's not his father, shutting him out. It's not his worry for the battles to come. Somehow, he guessed she's keeping secrets from him, and it's killing him. She's not ready for this. Arthur may not be his father, but he's his father's son. She wants to tell him, to open her heart to him again. But she just can't. She turns to leave.
He stops her, one hand on the knob, the other closing the door shut.
He's so closed she can feel the slow beating of his heart. His emotions slam into her. She tastes his anger and his anguish. She smells the sense of betrayal and the pain. She knows the wrath and the hurt. She arches to the sorrow and the loneliness. And above all, she feels the needs; the need to prove himself; the need to be trusted; the need to protect; the need to be loved. His feelings reap her soul.
Morgana leans on him, sliding her hand around his neck. The gesture is so intimate, he closes his eyes a second, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her. He lets his hand caress the soft curve of her arm before slowly pushing her away. Not far, as if he can't bear to stand aside anymore, but enough to make her face him.
There's apprehension in his blue eyes fixed on her; apprehension and resolve. He won't let her go without an answer. What will he do with the truth? He's not his father. He's a far better man. She needs him too.
« I'm a witch. »
He doesn't flinch. Her admission is not that much a surprise anyway. He suspects something like that for a while. One glance at her and he knows she's not lying. Her green gaze is uncertain. She looks scared. He tries to force confidence into his voice. He's scared too.
« Don't ever use that word again. »
N-A: I know, stopping a bit abruptly, but any attempt to turn it into something less harsh just fail. Wait and see...