A/N: I would like to preface this story by saying that I will be doing my best to make everything as "correct" as possible—when it comes to the show and the myths—but I will admit to taking some creative liberties.
Also, two things. 1)This fic may or may not ever be finished. It was my original intent to write this as an episode (or two) for April's Script Frenzy, but it didn't work out. I figure if I post this, I am more likely to try and finish. 2) If you are interested, the idea for this story came about while trying to convince a friend that it would be totally plausible for Morgana and Merlin to have feelings for each other. And—if I'm being honest—to plead Morgana's case. It's not her fault she's a cold-hearted b-
...witch.
In the future, I will try to keep author's notes as concise (or nonexistent) as possible—unless I have something very clever to say.
The young woman's eyelids felt so heavy.
Curses shouted. A castle crumbling all around her. A kingdom in peril.
The last thing she remembered was a smallish white form descending upon her and a calm, soothing tickle seeping into her veins and repairing her wounds. Morgana mustered up the strength to open one eye halfway, then the other, only to immediately close them tight when a blinding yellow light appeared before her.
The light moved away, but was replaced with warm, labored breathing.
"The lady lives," a creaky voice. Male, she thought, but it was hard to tell. "Niall, the manacles, while she is weak."
"Yes, sir."
"This is very fortunate, Niall. Aithusa has left us a sign. A great sign of her promise of hope to come. I hope you do not take for granted the privilege you have been granted in witnessing this miracle."
"No, sir."
There was brief pause before Morgana felt two heavy weights being clamped to each of her wrists. Her eyelids fluttered, and she caught a glimpse of a youthful, fair-haired man kneeling in front of her outstretched arms, muttering incantations. Rather than her wrists being chained together by iron, she realized two small silver cuffs (now glowing slightly from the cast magic) were the source of her discomfort. They looked like trifling ornaments she might have worn during her life at Camelot, but together they must have weighed as much as a knight's sword.
The man slipped one arm underneath her knees and the other around her back. Morgana began to groan, remembering her injuries, but felt no pain. She then recalled the sweet breath of—a dragon, it had been. No, the sensations she experienced were of her thoughts swimming above her in the night sky, her bones like bricks laden with armor, she felt every beat of her heart, had to make a conscious effort to breathe.
Her last thoughts before she drifted back into a deep sleep:
Promise of hope. Miracle. Who were these men?
One Year Later
Emrys.
The voice was weak. It tangled with the wind and was lost amongst the whistling leaves in the trees. The wind howled that night, making it impossible for the travelers to maintain their fire. They slept in the cold, shivering under their blankets despite the thick layers of fabric each of them wore. However, it had been a long day's journey—towards the coast to settle disputes with some foreign merchants—so they slept soundly.
Emrys.
Help.
Help.
Help us, Emrys.
Merlin gasped awake to the chorus of voices, sitting up in a daze before finally remembering where he was. His head leaned back on a tree at such an angle that when he sat up, he felt jolts of pain in his neck. He sat on the outskirts of a small encampment; around the cold pit were the Knights of Camelot and the King himself. Leon was the only man on watch, sitting on a fallen log with his back to Merlin. As Merlin stood to fetch his bedroll so he could get some proper sleep, he kicked a stack of dirty bowls from that night's supper. They clattered about.
Leon jumped to his feet with his hand on the hilt of his sword. He groaned when he saw the lanky figure of the dark haired serving boy. "Merlin…" he sighed, shaking his head and returning to his seat. "Try and let the others sleep, would you?"
Merlin muttered his apologies and rubbed his eyes, his dreams so far removed from his thoughts he could not remember what it was that had awoke him.
He then found a softer patch of earth and covered himself with a blanket, but as he rested his head on his arms, he had closed his eyes for only a moment before jolting awake again.
Emrys, please.
This time the voice stayed with him. A cry for help that Merlin could not ignore—the kind of call that reverberated in the back of his skull and sent shivers down his spine. It was the small, distinct voice of a young girl. Without a second thought—lest doubt begin to set in—Merlin murmured an incantation, waited until Leon had slumped against a log, snoring, and tossed his satchel over his shoulder. With one last glance to make sure that all of the knights were sleeping soundly, he set off through the forest.
As he knew it would, an innate sense of direction pulled him through the forest. The wind and the cool dewy air did not slow him; rather, his magic stirred inside him and warmed his entire body. As he walked branches and brambles curled themselves out of his path, and wild animals shirked into the shadows. It was amazing the difference in his stance when he was like this, free to let his magic leak if he like, not having to keep up the façade of the bumbling simpleton servant; his posture was straight and confident and his stride was long and sure. He traipsed always forwards and onwards—towards his people.