I Who Was Born in Gloom (Shall Live Among the Stars)

I

The chubby little thing wriggled this way and that, munching contentedly on a brilliantly green leaf whilst carving out new and random—decorative, even—patterns along the way in its seemingly unending hunger.

Large pistachio-hued eyes watched the tiny caterpillar with keen interest as it squirmed, delighted, at the child's tender touch, guessing there could be more savoury leaves atop that slender, milky digit. Its many minuscule paws took the creature on a fruitless journey through the soft pads and the future-revealing lines of the young lady Morgana's palm.

So there it was, that dainty life, just dangling precariously on her curious hands; it was a good feeling, the tickling of an existence upon her skin.

This occurrence in itself, however, was all but uncommon—it was the King's juvenile ward, unaccompanied outside castle walls, roaming around carelessly by the edges of the wood and inspecting her surroundings for critters as a means of distraction that set this particular event apart from the others. Though, to be true, this was not the first time Morgana had sneaked out; she was quite adept at it, really, for it was the easiest of deeds to get past the guards—she could wear any of her obnoxiously bright-coloured, ridiculously-prone-to-dramatic-swooshing cloaks and still manage to exit or enter the citadel borders unnoticed.

A child's boredom needs appropriate remedy and bouncing around with Arthur did not presently suit her mood (they would play swords and she would always win, to which he would ramble and sulk and demand another go because he had been "light on her for being a girl". She would oblige and proceed to beating him again and again until she tired and forfeited so he would just go away already). She had been locked up within that fortress of unfeeling stone for too great a while and something inside her yearned to go out and play, to live as a child is supposed to live, so she decided on a lonely stroll under the warm sun in search of made-up monsters to slay and things to see.

See she did, containing a giggle at the caterpillar's indecision on whether to climb her thumb or the rest of her arm; See she did, when the vision of a striking butterfly flashed before her eyes, crossing the sky with the grace of a fallen, breeze-carried petal.

Morgana blinked in confusion and looked around her, unsure of what to do, what to think; she had been looking down at the larva, how could she have seen something else in the infinite blue above?

Then, with a sigh of relief, she verified she wasn't just imagining things when her childish gaze fell upon a butterfly—wings of a vibrant red, outlined by smudges and splashes of black and white which framed the dots of ruby and aquamarine painted by nature on the edges of the smooth membranes—, a butterfly perched lightly upon one of many clusters of small, white, five petal flowers sustained by long, slim stems.

So glad indeed that she had seen nothing but reality, Morgana failed to notice that the majestic insect before her now was not tinted the same rich emerald blots which sprung forth out of the black Tartarus that were the eerie wings of her vision. Nor could she, as the scarlet butterfly took to the sky, up, up, up towards its true dwelling—towards the sun—, to where Morgana could never follow.

As if jealous and wanting to regain her attention, the little caterpillar still in her grasp twitched. Somewhat embarrassed, she closed her gaping mouth, looked at the animal, smiled, and pointed to its tomorrow.

"You'll be just like that one day. Beautiful. Free. I should like to see that."

It wiggled again, almost as if nodding.

II

Somewhere kissed by the light, cleansed by the rain and sheltered from the wind, a tiny larva settled in its chrysalis, an eager pupa waiting for its coma; waiting and suffering the changes that would bring forth its future.

Somewhere, breath hitched, muscles tensed and heart struggled, warring against that strange, suffocating lethargy, refusing to yield to the terrifying oppression which characterizes the cocoon of darkness that is death.

But the threads of oblivion twined around her legs, bound her arms, crushed her throat—and those arms around her, those hateful arms welcomed her into nothingness, pretending to soothe her. ("Shh, this is just a phase. Soon you will fly free, free of this carcass, and you can inhabit the sun. You can still shine over Camelot, Morgana!")

Then the cold embrace of non-existence (of betrayal) surrendered her to a warm, loving bosom—by then, she could no longer speak or move, only listen; the sounds grew fainter as the walls of her shell solidified, but she heard them to the end: the strong palpitations of that angry (frightened) breast, pummelling desperately through the barrier of flesh to get to her own heart, to hold it, to save it.

She clung to this as dark encased her—she did not want to die, but, should it happen, she would be happy to go thus: being lulled to sleep by that music, being led into eternity by those hands.

Somewhere, a rotund creature had finally quenched its never ending starve and was beginning to develop its wings, expertly hidden in thick foliage where the wind could never blow it away.

Somewhere, another chrysalis was devoured by the tornado.

III

Flutter, flutter, the butterfly's wings batted on their own to a destination which would reveal itself only when reached.

What a view! Surveying the land from above, it was obvious that it wasn't just the caterpillar that had changed, but also the country—it had hatched into a whole new world altogether.

There was something about this place…A sparkle in everything, life everywhere; the water pristine, the air fresh, the earth fertile. All was beautiful. Nature was pulsating with new vigour, like the order of things had been restored after being forcefully dormant for so long.

Floating about, the butterfly neared the walls of Camelot: it smelled of fire, fire and magic, but the wounds, though evidently recent, were healing well; the townsfolk walked normally about—some even skipped—smiling, humming some joyful tune. The battle was over. They were alive. Only a few loved ones had been lost, guards and soldiers and knights, but no civilians had been harmed—those who had were cured by exactly the same thing the Pendragon rule had condemned all these years—, no crops damaged, no unnecessary evils put to use. And none of them, none of those whose eyes could shine the colour of gold and do marvellous things, none would burn. They were free, never to wallow in shadows again.

The airborne insect descended a little as it got closer and closer to an open window. It needed to go in, needed to explore whatever was inside and satisfy that urge that compelled it to fly onward to its unknown destiny. So in it went, unaware it had gaily invited itself into the King's chambers.

Or so they used to be—on the great bed where a once great king had lain were two lovers, still naked and whose limits were undistinguishable but for their contrasting hair (a sea of pitch black locks simultaneously engulfing and being engulfed by endless waves of incandescent gold). They awoke into this new world as well—into their world.

Morgana drew in a deep, lazy breath and regarded her environment, trying to recognize where she was. Then her eyes, which had ran across the whole room unimpressed, over wooden doors, colourful tapestry, tall windows and silken sheets, finally found something to admire: the graceful curve of the warrior's hip under her touch, the soft contour that led from thence to the delicate, rounded breast, and from there to the more angular lines of a collarbone, which led up to a thin neck, deceivingly fragile-looking; and then the determined jaw, punctuated by a (depending on how light fell upon her features, a very slightly dimpled) firm chin, the support of mystery-carrying full lips, which would reveal only to her, Morgana, all the secrets behind those big, brown, flaming eyes of power unrestrained, perhaps only magnified by the thin, blond eyebrows above them. Said eyes were looking straight back into her own with the sweetness Morgause granted only to her.

"It's been a week and still I feel like I'm dreaming," Morgana said, her voice still cracked from sleep.

"You are not," Morgause replied, a smile in her voice. "All your visions have come true. We have all we wanted."

"Not all," she shifted closer, some melancholy in her intonation, softness in her touch as she slid one finger over the grooves and dents of the hideous scar that had chewed off the right side of Morgause's face and had been partially hidden by the pillow they shared. "I am yet to See, and I shall See how to make you whole again."

The blonde was quick to take Morgana's hand and place it over her healthy cheek, discretely burrowing her deformity back into the pillow, though never dropping her gaze, proud as ever. "This is unimportant. It doesn't change who I am."

Morgana leaned in and kissed her languidly.

"And it doesn't change what you are to me."

Some silence.

"Don't move," said Morgause, a glint in her eyes as she raised one of her hands to reach something nestled in Morgana's hair. She retrieved the butterfly and held it before them. "Look... It came for you."

Morgana offered the animal her hand and the insect readily propelled itself onto it with a single, swift flap of its wings—wings of a stark black, sliced by spots, flames rather, of radiant green, like fireflies hovering in the endless night.

This time, while Morgana took in the sight, the little creature decided between crawling up her thumb or her arm and slowly began to make its way past her wrist, one frail tiny leg after the other.

"B-but," she staggered, aware of the absurdity, "how could it? It's been years…"

"You wished it, it's come. Like us, it has finally gained its liberty."

"… Like us?"

The dark butterfly was nearly at Morgana's marble shoulder, but stopped to stare and listen when Morgause brought her hands together and whispered, "Áwegflíeh, mín módsefan."

When her palms parted again, they revealed another familiar butterfly, wings of a fiery red, still carrying what seemed like precious stones over black and white plates; there was a small rip on one of its forewings this time, but that did not affect its locomotion.

It made a funny movement with its antennae, to which its black and green counterpart responded excitedly and both flew up above the two women's heads.

Morgana and Morgause watched—the former in awe, the latter in a quiet understanding, but both overtaken by a sense of bliss—as they played together, circling and chasing one another until they locked their tiny legs and swirled in a crazy whirlpool of colours, an embrace of sorts, and left the room, claiming the outside, calling to the women behind them to follow them out: the sun awaited.

A/N: It is beyond me why I took so long to post this here, but there you go. Merlin is my most recent and burning obsession, so expect more in that fandom from me. And yes, Morgana/Morgause is my OTP and I regret nothing.

In other news... This fic bascially exists because of Emilia Fox's love for butterflies. I needed to write about butterflies. It was just this unnatural, insane urge, so I indulged, hee.

And many, many thanks to my content beta, Chris, who showered me with undeserved compliments and with whom I am to this day discussing aspects of this story :)