Summary: 1x08, The Beginning of the End. Alone in the hours of darkness, Morgana, Mordred and Merlin reflect. Oneshot.

Carry my soul into the night
May the stars guide my way.
I glory in the sight
As darkness takes the day.

Sing a song, a song of life
Made without regret
Tell the ones, the ones I loved
I never will forget
Never will forget.

'In Noctem', Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince soundtrack

Nocturne

I

Morgana

The outer darkness descended over the glass like spilled ink. Beneath the cold chill of the moon, she shivered, though the interior of her chamber was full of warmth and light. Blue veils of moonlight silhouetted her slender figure standing at the window, facing out into the night. She could see the slightly blurred reflection of her face in the glass. Grey-green eyes were bleak with misery and apprehension, her gaze distant and pensive. The skin of her bared shoulders was very white against the dark violet silk of her gown, and, exposed to the night air, icy cold. Her black hair rippled like shifts of dark water in the cold draught that whispered through the chamber.

Morgana was alone, and she felt it. She had not realised how used to the child's presence she had become over the last few days, but now his absence was like an emptiness eating away at her soul. She closed her eyes, once again seeing his image against the backs of her eyelids. The ink-black hair, wide blue eyes, skin so pale it seemed almost luminous with fever, the shadows beneath his eyes turned to faded lavender. Any other child his age would have been bright with eagerness and vitality, not wasting away to bones and shadow, forced to grow up too fast in a world of fear with the threat of death ever present. What other horrors had his young mind been exposed to? Had he not endured enough already? To see his sole protector executed. To see his anguished face in shattered glass as his thin chest rose and fell with terror. Even now the memory of his scream coursed through her ears. The splintering glass blinded her. She had hidden the broken shards of her mirror away, fearing that anything out of the ordinary could lead to discovery. The sharp crystalline fragments were still concealed in the darkest corner of her wardrobe. But memories could not be so easily buried.

Sudden hatred for Uther surged through her body like a white-hot lance, startling her in its intensity. Her white fists clenched, the painful gauges her nails left in her palms vividly recalling to mind the blood that had stained the boy's shirt like spilled wine, seeping ever outwards as his blue-veined eyelids fluttered uncertainly between life and death.

How could this be justice? That Uther's cruelty could extend to the killing of a poor, lonely, lost child… How could such an innocent be capable of evil?

And the boy, was he thinking of her? Was he lying alone in that cold cell, thinking no one was coming for him, that they had forgotten him? No, never, never! She would see him saved if it was the last thing she did. Tonight, she was to lie to her lord and guardian and she would do so with a song in her heart. She could not love Uther now. She could not even pity him. How could she?

She was prepared to endure danger, displeasure, even death… all for this child. What had brought her to this? What was it, this unknown place he had awakened deep within herself?

I… I love him. As a mother does the babe at her breast. And he loves me. I know it. I've seen it in his eyes.

So much had she felt, so much had he told her without words. From the very first moment she had set eyes on him, she had felt that connection, vivid and flaring, spring to life between them. She knew he had magic, yet she did not fear him. No, her heart and soul ached for him; to soothe away his tears, to cherish and comfort him with soft words, to feel the warmth of his skin as she held him close in her arms. She longed to protect him from this cold, dark world. A world of nightmares. Of fear. And death, death everywhere.

How strange it was that by day she was strong and undaunted, able to face anything, yet at night, her strength dwindled to no more than that of a pale ghost, rendering her terrifyingly helpless and completely at the mercy of the nocturnal premonitions that plagued her mind and would allow her no rest. Sweating and shaking, she would awake in the cold light of dawn and stare at the stricken woman in the mirror, and in those times she hardly knew herself. She moved vaguely, lost in a sea of dreams.

She hated this, the fear, the uncertainty. The Lady Morgana was not supposed to know fear. It was easy enough in the daylight hours to smile and laugh, but when darkness came upon her and she felt the call of sleep like a wave of all-enveloping mist, then the sense of foreboding overpowered her once more. She was aware of it even now, tugging at her body like chains of silk and moonlight as the breath caught in her throat. With an exertion of will, she forced it down, honing her consciousness to a sharp knife's point, focusing on what she must do. No time now to succumb to the inevitable tide of sleep and the images that haunted her pillow.

At night, Morgana dreamt of dark forests, of stone walls and silver mists and swords and destiny. The images came to her like memories of another life. But this child was no dream stealing upon the vulnerable edges of her half-conscious mind in those veiled grey hours between sleeping and waking. No, he had appeared to her in the glaring light of day. A sign. A purpose. That she must save him was the one certain thing in her world of half-forgotten dreams and truths shrouded in somnolent mists. He had been brought to her for a reason.

But I had the chance to save him. And I failed.

For a moment, tears blinded her. She had promised no harm would come to him. The memory was like a painful laceration to the heart. Fragile whispers and softly murmured promises that had splintered apart in that fatal moment of discovery. She could not allow such a thing to happen again. The thought of his still, pale face with the blue-tinged eyelids forever closed filled her with terror.

She had never felt like this before. She did not know how to control this intense, terrifying love burning within her entire being. Never before had she known such shattering anguish, the sense of self missing that she saw completed in this quiet, self-contained child.

He is my son. As dear to me as life itself. The child not of my body, but of my soul.

Perhaps such things were not meant to be explained.

But Merlin, Merlin had seemed to understand. There was more happening within his enigmatic mind than he was telling her, of that she was certain. There had been a glimpse, a flicker, a something in his dark blue eyes, but then he had pulled away, retreating from going too far, too deep. But it was too late for her.

She had never known such closeness to anyone than with this child in those calm silences when he would open his eyes and look at her with such solemn appeal. Such old eyes in that young face. She would see them in her dreams and her dreams would no longer be nightmares.

But he has no one. How lonely and afraid he must be.

Even if he did reach the Druids, would they protect him? Uther had always spoken of the Druids as enemies, and even though Morgana had come to doubt her guardian's judgement, she could not escape the image of these mysterious beings, tall and pale and terrible as they stood in the silent forests. They too had appeared in her dreams with bowed heads and green robes bound with silver cords, hovering always just beyond her reach.

Even if the child did find sanctuary among them, she would never see him again. He could never return to Camelot. A convulsive tide of sorrow and loss came over her. She did not even turn around as Guinevere entered but remained still and tense, her hands trembling in the folds of her gown as every part of her being silently prayed and hoped that Arthur's plan would succeed. She must hope, even though it came at the cost of the child leaving Camelot forever.

Oh, but to see him once more! To hold him to her, to stroke the soft, dark curls from his forehead with a trembling, searing touch, and kiss the youthful cheeks that had never received any heartfelt affection. To have him close to her heart, always. He had looked so young curled in a midst of bed sheets, pale cheeks flushed with fever, dark hair curled around his forehead, damp with perspiration. He had never known a mother's love. And she could do nothing…

The light of the candle wavered and danced before her blurred gaze. It burned her eyes. Bright and pure. Like Gwen. Gwen, for whom things were so simple and uncomplicated. Morgana could not understand that bright, unquenchable spirit, and realised that she never had. Sweet Gwen, whose pillow was never haunted by nightmares, who was never chilled by the shadow of fears that had not yet come to pass. She did not move as Guinevere saw to her fastenings, her expression distant and melancholy.

"Thank you," she said absently. Then she saw Guinevere's face. Those honest dark eyes held a distance within them, and Morgana knew this was something that, for the first time, she could not share with her maid. It made her sad in a way she could not explain.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"You're risking so much for this boy. You don't know anything about him; you don't even know his name."

But he knows mine. He spoke to me. I heard it, inside my mind. "There's a bond between us," was all she said.

"Stronger than the bond you have with Uther?" demanded Gwen.

"Like nothing I've ever felt before." Her eyes burned with a clear, vivid light, like green crystals in her very white face. She tried to smile and felt her heart splinter at the effort. "Perhaps I was meant to help him."

"How can that be?"

Some painful force was knotting her vocal cords together; it hurt to speak. "I don't know. I can't explain it."

Guinevere continued to look doubtful. I'm losing her, Morgana thought sombrely. But if I must choose between Gwen and the boy, I will choose the child. I cannot bear to see him suffer again. "I must go to Uther."

She could still feel Gwen's eyes on her as she left the room.