Merlin's hands tremble as he tries to light the fire.
Strike one. The spark sputters and dies in milliseconds.
Strike two. It hisses and dissipates into smoke as soon as it touches the firewood.
Strike three. This match has to be the one. He wants tonight to go well so bad. He wants to tell her he's sorry, for, well…and if he can't even get the damn fire going, there's hardly a chance he can right his wrongs. God, he is so useless. He scrapes the match against the rough side of its box –
"Forbearne."
Merlin yelps. Not because the fire that is suddenly set ablaze just singed his fingertips, but because he feels the tug of the tendrils of magic, long forgotten, yet so familiar.
Turning around, he sees Morgana looking at him curiously.
"Why didn't you use magic?"
Merlin averts his eyes, "it's complicated."
She plops herself onto his sofa and stretches like a cat.
"Perfect. I love complicated."
He hesitates. And a few seconds later, "have you heard of Beethoven?"
"Beethoven?" She echoes, then scoffs, "Merlin, who wouldn't know Beethoven, the musical genius who's inspired centuries of artists."
"It's not as simple as that," he mutters, taking the remaining matches out of their box and twiddling with them.
"Well," she says impatiently, "explain."
"Beethoven – they say he was born to ghost-write for God. That was his destiny. But music was both his heaven and hell. It was heaven because it was a gift, and he loved it. It was hell because every time he played, the music would transport him back to his father's violent fists. Every time he played, all he would hear was silence."
His grip on the matchsticks tightened.
"I was born to protect Arthur, protect Camelot. That was my destiny. And magic used to be my heaven, but now it's just a reminder of the lives I've ended, the lives I couldn't save.
"Beethoven clung on to the piece of heaven in his hell. But I – I can't, Morgana. I can't. I couldn't save Arthur – "
Pause.
"I couldn't save you."
His voice cracks.
"I'm sorry."
Silence. And then, a shifting of the couch, a warm hand on his, gentle fingers prying his fists open and replacing the shriveled matchsticks with them.
He gazes at the hand in wonder and looks tentatively up at its owner.
"Oh, Merlin," Morgana breathes, and she interlocks their fingers together.
It's going to be okay.