Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.

Title: Poisoned Chalice

Word Count: 2,451

Author: Sardonic Irony

Summary: He was dying and there was nothing she could do to help. Nothing.

A/N: This has been updated since posting - some minor formatting tweaks and a quick edit to tidy up the end! When porting some documents I dug up this little piece. Still, enjoy and please don't forget to R&R. Can't improve without critique!

"Stop. Don't drink it, it's poisoned."

Morgana's didn't pay any sort of attention to the swords being drawn and the chaos erupting around her, she was focused on the fact that her heart just about stopped. Her friend, the man who was so mysterious, and yet so open had just arrived to confront a King and there was nothing she could do.

She was sure, in that moment that he was going to die and that she would be left without him... without his friendship... without his presence in her life. With a broken heart. Because at that moment, envisioning a life without this man who had some to mean so much to her in such a short space of time, the man who brought her flowers and smiled at her as if she was special just for the person she was, she realised that she'd done something really, ridiculously dumb. She, the Lady Morgana, had fallen in love with the goofy manservant, and for some reason she wasn't screaming at the sheer insanity of it all.

Ever since she had become the King's Ward, ever since she had been informally adopted into House Pendragon, she had been told that it was her lot to marry for the good of the kingdom, for the good of her family. So what, in the five kingdoms, had possibly possessed her that she might fall in love, and worse, fall in love with a servant? Yet despite the craziness of the idea, she had fallen for him, and had she fallen hard. Somehow the smile, the ears, the wit had all broken through her exterior, broken through all the years of preparation, all the years of knowing that her duty was to become a trophy upon some noble's arm, broken through to Morgana, and now the stupid oaf was going to die.

It wasn't fair. She almost rose, to speak out, to damn the consequences of publically linking herself to him, but one warning look from him made her stop.

She wished she could always read his eyes as easily, she still didn't know how he felt about her, because quite honestly Merlin didn't play any sort of game she was used to. He wasn't lecherous in anyway, never took any sort of opportunity to bring things to her chambers when she may be undressing, didn't even look at her improperly, just gave her that smile that seemed to cut her to core, to touch her heart. It was if she was being forced to dance to a tune that she had no understanding of. It was infuriating. She falls in love with the one man other than Arthur and Uther, who displays absolutely zero interest in her as a woman. The same man who was, at this moment, preparing to drink a goblet full of poison.

Merlin raised the goblet to his lips and drank.

The tears wouldn't stop flowing, wouldn't stop cascading down her face, falling from her face in an unending torrent.

She'd managed to hold it together long enough to escape that hall... managed to restrain the rage, the rage that had been urging her to grab the knife on her right hand side , leap across the table and stab Bayard, stab the one responsible for what had happened, for hurting Merlin. She managed to restrain it all, at least until Gwen left, leaving a sleeping potion next to her bed.

Now though, now there was no restraint, no way of holding it back, the emotions flowed from her like a river undammed, searing through her mind, her veins.

It wasn't fair.

She rose, pacing around her room until she came to sit on her bed, cold pillows behind her, bedside table with sleeping draught on top to her right.

Merlin was so sweet, so kind, so... perfect and yet this was his lot... and on top of that, Gwen got to go to him, Gwen got to sit by his bedside, Gwen got to watch over him. It should've been her! It should've been her who washed his face and cared for him. It should have been her who stayed with him through the night! It should've been her.

Rage, jealously and impotent fury burned through her, monsters that swallowed her in a second, consuming her. In a single second she'd risen, grasped the sleeping draught and hurled it across the room, sending it crashing into the stone wall opposite her. Unsurprisingly it exploded, shattering into a million little pieces, glittering glass and dark liquid, both shimmering as they fell in tiny pieces, pieces that would never, could never go back together.

And she cried harder, violent heaving gaps that rent her chest and burnt her throat, eyes stinging and heart aching, and she looked at the shattered bottle and thought that it was much like her heart had when she saw Merlin collapse. Her legs gave way beneath her, too weak to hold her up any longer, dizziness grasping at her mind as she collapsed to her knees and sobbed, sobbed for the servant who had captured her heart, the servant she couldn't help.

She had no concept of how long she knelt there, sobs wracking her body, before she managed to claw her way back to lucidity. And even then, it was a fragile calm, a veneer of composure that could be disturbed, shattered, by any sort of thought about him. She lay on her bed, avoiding thinking, staring at the walls, keeping vigil for the man she loved. Outside of her thoughts she was numb to the world.

Again, time seemed to blur, blur into a dragging, drawing, lumbering beast that seemed to move past her without noticing her, without her truly seeing it, a vague draw on the edge of her mind, but one that she ignored and dismissed as unimportant. She had no idea how long she lay there but slowly, so very slowly, an idea began to dawn, an idea that brought hope, hope and vitality to her again. Quickly she rose, hurrying to her vanity table. She hurriedly did her best job at removing the most visible sign of her tears, the raw red eyes. Nothing she could do for her rather torn up throat, but she'd have to hope he wouldn't notice. She stepped away from the table, grabbing her cloak and throwing it around her shoulders.

All of this at the fastest speed she could manage. If she didn't stop she wouldn't think.

Uther may have refused Arthur, but maybe, just maybe she could persuade Arthur, a man who was a far better person than his father, perhaps she could get him to go. She had always been told she had a persuasive tongue, now it was time to use it.

She wasn't this person. She wasn't. Love was for fools and servants, people who were truly free. Love wasn't for her. Love hadn't been able to touch her, no matter whom the knight was, whom the Lord was; no matter what the person had been like, she'd been impervious.

Then she'd fallen for a servant.

It was stupid, stupid beyond measure.

She should stay away.

She knew she should.

He was safe. He would survive. He would make it through and she'd saved his life by persuading Arthur to go. She had done her bit, done all she could for him. It had worked. Now she should leave him alone, she couldn't be involved anymore, couldn't be any closer.

But God how she wanted to be there beside him.

She was looking out the window as the sun's last rays died a slow death, shadow creeping across Camelot's courtyard like a corruption, burrowing into the heart of the stone, dark emptiness crawling over cool stone.

Merlin was close. He was recovering. It was a cruel joke of fate, a twist of irony so sharp it physically hurt that after all of this, all the pain, suffering and hurt she'd already gone through she couldn't go to him now. Pain without catharsis. The story of her life.

She should be there.

Why should you?

Ah, there it was, that twisty friend they called conscience. In Morgana's experience it was all too much like a torture complex. And hers was overdeveloped to a fault.

You're the lady of the castle. Morgana Pendragon. Beautiful, perfect, untouchable. How can you even talk about going to see him? To him you are worthless because nothing can ever happen between you. You are useless.

She shivered, hands clenching the window sill. This was the thing about her conscience, it was a bitch, and yet it was always right. She was the lady of the castle and she couldn't offer him anything. After all, what did she think she could say? Tell him the truth? Yeah that would happen when Uther allowed magic into the kingdom once more. And yet you want to tell him, you want to so much, foolish, naive child that you are.

She should stay away.

In fact forget saying away, she should be running away, running in the opposite direction as fast and as desperately as she could. She couldn't love him, and he could certainly never love her back. Any chance of anything was doomed right from the off. All her love could bring was heartache. She should be sprinting away, and she should never look back.

But you love him.

Conscience, ever fickle. The devil's advocate given voice. Stay or go, it was a hopeless, agonising choice.

And Gwen had been allowed to go. Gwen had kissed him. Her servant, her wonderful, beautiful servant had told her so. And her wonderful, beautiful servant hadn't seen the knife slip into her heart.

It isn't fair, you loved him first and now she gets him.

She should go.

What is he going to want with you? He can build a life with Gwen, can have a happy, uncomplicated life. You can't mean anything to him.

It was selfish to go. It wasn't her head that would roll if everything went wrong. And yet...

She grabbed her cloak.

All her life she'd believed in making the right choice over the easy choice, but sometimes people simply aren't strong enough to do the right thing, and Morgana in a moment of desperate clarity amid confusion realised that when it came to Merlin she was as weak as it came.

She left the room.

She'd lied to be here. Lied, and gotten away with it. For now. But if she was caught here... the consequences would not be pretty. She'd known the dangers before she'd come, before she'd begged off dinner, before she'd snuck her way into Gaius' chambers, crept her way to his bedside. She'd known the dangers and yet she'd been powerless to refuse her need to see him.

Gwen had gone home, Morgana had insisted on that, she hadn't told the woman the real reason for that insistence, hadn't told her that she thought that tonight, only a few hours after she'd learned that Merlin would live, she'd cave. Still, she didn't regret it. Gaius had been asked to eat with Uther and so Merlin was left here, sleeping fitfully, still. The last vestiges of the fever still gripped him but Gaius had told Gwen that the worst was over, he would live. The relief she had felt at the news was difficult to conceal but she'd managed it and now she was here, here with him.

His brow was sweat stained, his shirt was creased and he was sprawled openly on his thin bed in the middle of Gaius' chambers. She had never loved anyone so much, never loved anyone to the point where it hurt like this did. He was hers, even if he didn't know it.

Slowly she lowered herself to sit on the stool next to his bed, just sitting, gazing at him, a frown marring her features. She studied him, taking in his vulnerability, memorizing him, she wasn't sure she'd get another chance to look at him without any other people around, people who wouldn't improve.

He mumbled in his sleep, turning slightly. The mumbles were inaudible, incomprehensible. The frown deepened. She reached down, delving her hand into the bucket of cold water next to the bed. She found the cloth in the chill water pulling it out and wringing it out. She hadn't done this often but she'd done it enough whenever Camelot was threatened and its warriors needed as many healers as possible. She wiped the damp cloth over his head, slowly moving it over his brow. As she did so she began to talk.

"Please Merlin, get better. You have to get better, you have to recover. Camelot needs you, Arthur needs you, Gaius needs you..."

The terrified part of her shied away from saying what she wanted to say, but the logical part of her cried that she needed to say it, if she didn't she'd regret it and after all he was comatose, he couldn't hear her.

She sighed.

"I need you Merlin, I need you desperately I-"

Her voice cracked and tears sprang to her eyes.

"I… you need to recover. You just have to… I feel something for you that is more powerful than I can describe and… if you die... well… I don't know what I'd do..."

"Well I'm sure it'd be something very impressive and appropriately angry."

She flinched upon hearing his voice, pure and unadulterated terror swarming her mind. He knew. She was so scared she couldn't find it within herself to laugh at his joke, could barely breathe, her stomach suddenly felt like it was knotted in about twenty different ways. She was all set on fleeing this horror, escaping the hell that she'd just created for herself.

But as she went to rise, Merlin gripped her hand tightly.

"Don't go."

"Merlin?" Her voice was a whisper. Some tiny part of her hated the weakness she was showing, detested the tiny sliver of poisonous hope that had wormed its way into her heart on hearing him ask her to stay.

He raised his head a little, eyes bleary and far off as if even that movement was close to sending him back toward his fevered sleep. She placed her hand over his, wiping his brow with the damp cloth again.

"Morgana." His voice was strained and scratchy from disuse, weakened by his fever.

"Hush" she murmured, soothingly trailing her hand through his hair. "I'm here. I'll watch over you. Sleep."

The tension bled out of his neck and shoulders, his head lowered and he seemed to drift back off into the painless world of his dreams. Morgana smiled down at him, relieved he was feeling better, but somewhat troubled too. She'd revealed how she felt to him. She shouldn't have done that. It was stupid, careless, reckless. And she had no idea how he felt. What that thought the nerves and the fears began to eat at her, paranoia circling that core of hope that had begun to burn so brightly only a few seconds ago. Who was she kidding? There was no chance that a servant would risk Uther's wrath, and the death penalty on her account. It was entirely insane of her to even think-. Her thoughts cut off sharply. A knowing grin had worked its way across Merlin's face and his hand squeezed hers even more tightly than before.

"Hush" he murmured, "I'm here."

That did it. She cried, tears pouring down her face. She gripped his hand back tightly even as a radiant smile spread across her face.

"Can you really read my mind so easily Merlin?"

Clearly the fever had truly begun to reclaim him this time because he only managed a vaguely affirmative sound this time. His breathing quickly levelled out and it was clear to her that he'd reentered sleep.

True to her word she spent the next hour sat in the chair beside him, one hand holding his, the other playing lightly with his hair. She watched him sleep. Just watched him, memorising every inch of his face, every expression. She was transfixed. He was hers. Truly hers. Damn Uther, who wouldn't allow this, damn everything that stood in their way. Well, she'd be patient. They'd be patient. They'd endure.

Because, after all, he was Merlin and she was Morgana, and quite honestly what was more powerful than that?