A/N: Thanks to wickedinsanity for the beta. :)
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Merlin takes a brief pause from the Dickens serial he's perusing to consider how the separate factors of a superb story, a good view, and autumn sunshine can produce a summation quite close to perfection.
And then a shadow descends upon him, and he realizes he's been caught out.
Thinking it's Arthur come to chastise him for reading in the middle of a picnic, he looks up and grins sheepishly, only to find Morgana framed in the golden light. The sight nearly knocks the breath out of his lungs, but he gulps and regains his senses.
"Oh, hi!" he greets, scrambling clumsily to his feet.
"Why, hello," she drawls lazily, a smirk on her ruby lips as she watches him rake a hand through his hair. "Reading at a picnic, Merlin? Arthur's told me tales of your unsociability, but I never expected this."
He turns bright red and rubs at the back of his neck. "I'm not usually this impolite, I can assure you."
"Oh?" She lifts a brow, and he gets the feeling that she'll never let him off easily, for anything. "So what's so important that you'll abandon your friends?" Sneakily, she snatches the paper from his hand and takes a look at it. Noting the serial, she says, "Ahh, Dickens. Well, now, that's forgivable."
Like most of their conversations, he isn't sure whether she's teasing him. His school peers would taunt him relentlessly for reading such 'unrespectable' literature, so he's naturally a tad nervous when the subject comes up.
He clears his throat and stammers, "Do you, do you like Dickens?"
She regards him seriously for a moment before breaking into a smile. "I do," she says. "Immensely."
"Have you read the latest installment? You can read it if you'd like. It's quite good."
They haven't known each other for very long, but he's beginning to realize that she's brimming with constant surprises. Without replying, she takes a graceful seat on the blanket he's laid out on the grass and holds the paper out to him.
"Come," she requests with a gentle smile. "Read to me. For I haven't yet had the chance to catch up on the latest installment." When he hesitates, she adds, "And perhaps it will prevent others from thinking you're not taking part in the company."
Society expects certain behaviors of a fortuneless gentleman, behaviors which delineate a barrier between that gentleman and a lady of rank, a lady who is used to a life of leisure. And yet one meaningful look from her is all it takes for Merlin to forsake propriety.
He settles down beside her, takes the paper, and begins to read in a clear, measured voice. Morgana, with her head tilted back towards the sun and a fan in one hand, looks more relaxed than he's ever seen her. Before long, he loses himself in the spell woven by the fluid prose spilling from his tongue, the heady scent arising from the apple orchard, and the enchanting presence of his companion.
He raises his eyes when he reaches the end, surprised to find the rest of the party nowhere in sight.
"Oh," he exclaims, sitting up straight. "We've been left behind."
Morgana looks around, her lids heavy with laziness. He assists her to her feet and she surveys the orchard.
Unconcerned, she says, "No matter. We can catch them up."
Except she seems in no hurry to do so.
He inhales the refreshing aroma of the ripe fruit as they meander down the likeliest pathway, the apple trees shading their way. Morgana picks up a flower and begins to methodically dismantle it, petal by petal.
"Did you like the installment?" he asks.
"Very much," she confirms. "I do feel for Bella. She's in such an awful position."
"True, but she could be a tad more amiable to John. He's in a position just as unpleasant."
Morgana smiles, tilts her chin toward the sky, and says, "Perhaps we shouldn't discuss this until we've finished reading their story. I wouldn't want to quarrel with you . . . without cause."
A chuckle escapes Merlin's lips as he shakes his head, but he doesn't offer a reply as they continue down the path, the rest of their company still not in sight. Rolling his hat between his hands, he prompts, "Arthur seems to be very fond of Gwen. I haven't known him as long as you have, of course, but he's happiest when he's around her, at least from what I can tell."
"Yes," she agrees, "I can't remember the last time I saw him so . . . carefree."
"She's good for him, I think."
A pensive look appears on Morgana's face as she stretches a hand out toward the nearest line of trees, her fingers just brushing the bark. She glances over at him and says, "His father . . . expects much of him. He can't see the goodness in his only son, and sometimes I think it's hard for Arthur to see the goodness in himself."
Merlin smiles and finishes for her, "And Gwen is so good at seeing the goodness in others."
"Yes," she agrees, a tentative smile gracing her lips.
He takes a breath and, his feet failing to propel him forward any farther, he watches her stroll in front of him, can't take his eyes from the curve of her neck, the sway of her hips. He's constantly treading between bravery and foolishness around her, as if her presence is a drug that prevents him from acting properly, from adhering to social mores.
He is not the man for her, and yet he desperately wishes he could be so.
And so, without thinking, he blurts, "It's a wonder how two people can bring out the best in each other, is it not? Almost like they're two pieces of one whole that just . . . fit perfectly."
Morgana turns to regard him, and her mouth opens slightly in surprise at his question, at his distance, but before she can reply, Lancelot du Lake appears from out of the trees some ways up the lane.
"There you are!" he exclaims, coming toward them. "Gwen was worried about you. I came at her behest, but I hope I haven't interrupted a secret rendezvous."
"Not at all," Morgana assures him easily, as if the thought would never occur to her. "We've been left behind, that's all, and haven't been able to find our way back to the party."
"Well, in that case, let me escort you," Lancelot smiles as he extends his arm toward her.
A few steps behind the arm-in-arm pair, Merlin follows, hat twirling in his hands, eyes fixed on the leaves littering the grass.
It begins with his shirts.
She laughs when he brings her the third one in five days, asks him teasingly how he manages to ruin so many in the space of a week, but then the tinge of rouge upon his cheeks and the sheepish smile he gives her make her reconsider. After that incident, she begins to observe him more carefully, and she sees that she had dismissed him too quickly. He is a prat, certainly, but there's something quite noble lurking beneath the surface.
She watches him on the lawn, with his sisters, wooden swords in hand as they play fight, and she sees how the girls adore their elder brother. She watches him with Merlin, watches him roll his eyes and tease his friend as the dark-haired man fails to prove his athletic prowess. She watches him playing whist with Morgana, two competitive natures clashing until they decide to work together. She watches him with his father, sees the way he tries to hide his pain every time his best isn't good enough.
And she watches when he comes to her, a torn shirt in his hands, a soft plea in his eyes.
"Another one?" she asks demurely.
"I'm sorry, Guinevere," he smiles, head bowed slightly. "Another one. Will you mend it for me?"
"Of course," she replies, taking the bundle from his outstretched hands and placing it on top of her sewing pile.
It's only later, when she's finished with the dress she's making and has time to repair his shirt that she finds the delicate violet hidden within its folds.
For a moment, her mind goes blank.
First she's charging on with the rest of the party, urging the horse she's borrowed from Arthur toward the looming fence, and the next she's hurtling toward the ground.
But the ground doesn't come as swiftly as she expects. She even has enough time for irritation as she recalls the jeers and comments of the men who had not wanted her to accompany the hunting party.
Then she hits the ground, her upper body thrown into the bushes, and realizes it's not as hard as it looked from atop Nimueh.
Under the pretense of being stunned by the tumble, Morgana lies in the foliage and chokes back a sob. She hadn't meant to use her magic, but this is the nature of it. It's instinctual, surging forth without being summoned.
It's the reason she wakes up screaming at night, the reason she uses the only thing available to her - her features - in a desperate attempt to hide this secret. The worst part is not being able to control it, waking up each morning knowing any day could be the day it will erupt and betray her.
She swallows down her tears and puts on a brave face as Merlin dashes to her side, throwing himself to his knees.
"Are you all right?" he asks, his voice thick with concern.
Sitting up gingerly, she nods. And when she lifts her gaze to his, his blue-gold eyes are laden with not just worry but regret. She doesn't have time to wonder why though, because, gently, he slides an arm around her waist and hoists her to her feet.
"Are you sure?" he presses. "Can you stand all right? Do you need me to fetch a doctor?"
"I'm fine, Merlin, really," she assures him, nevertheless touched by his concern. "Stunned, is all."
"I can imagine," he says, a slight smile gracing his lips. "Arthur should have let you pick the horse."
He grimaces belatedly at his reminder of her situation, for her family has been forced to sell all their horses. The only reason she was able to accompany the hunt today was because of Arthur's generosity.
She squeezes his arm gratefully, hoping to put him at ease. "Yes, well, it probably would have happened with any horse I chose. I should not have tried that jump."
It's only now that she notices Alvarr Grandcourt on the other side of the fence. He stares at her from atop his mount, Neatid, and she feels as if those cold eyes could bore into her sole.
Thankfully, Merlin tips his hat and says, "Grandcourt. She's unhurt, but I will escort her back to the house. You should hurry. You wouldn't want to lose everyone."
"Of course not," Alvarr smiles. "I merely wanted to ascertain whether the lady was all right. But since my assistance is unnecessary, I must return to the hunt."
He turns his horse, and Merlin and Morgana are silent until he disappears into the trees.
"Morgana," Merlin says softly, "you're trembling."
"Am I?" she replies absently.
She hasn't realized that she's still clutching his arm like the connection will save them from the terrors she dreams of, and he's enough of a gentleman to not mention it.
"Come," he says, gently pulling her toward his horse. "Let's return to the house."
She observes quietly as he gathers Nimueh's reins and leads her and his own horse, Afanc, over to a stile to mount. Once he's settled in, he caches her hand to help her climb up behind him.
And, because there's no one around to chastise her, she snakes her arms around his waist and buries her face against his shoulder. He relaxes at her touch, and she uses the ride back to memorize his scent - ink and beeswax and cedar, like an ancient library full of books, brimming with knowledge.
"She has magic, I'm sure of it now."
Sir Gaius frowns at his nephew, the young man's agitation apparent in the way he paces across the library. He's no longer young enough to keep up with the hunt, so when the rest of the party had gone out, Gaius had stayed behind with the ladies, who were thrown into a twitter at the early return of Merlin and Miss Gorlois. Guinevere, seeing her friend's drawn expression, ushered her upstairs for a nap, leaving Merlin to recount the incident.
"That's a very serious accusation, Merlin," he reminds his nephew. "Are you sure?"
"It's not an accusation, Uncle; it's a fact." He smiles, and Gaius can see just how much he needs this. "She fell, and I-I didn't even have time to react before she . . . slowed. Uncle, she slowed down. In mid-air."
Gaius sighs, takes off his glasses, and rests them on top of the book laid out upon the desk. "I don't need to remind you that this is a very dangerous situation. I know you're happy that someone shares your gifts, but you should also be worried for her. From what you say, it seems that her powers have only recently manifested. If she does not also share your control, then simply going into society each day increases her risk of being caught."
Merlin pauses by the window and squares his shoulders, the heart of the valiant knight determined to defend his lady still alive and beating vibrantly in him.
"Then I will protect her," he declares.
"Merlin," the silver-haired man warns kindly.
Merlin sits back on the window sill, the afternoon sunlight glinting into the room around his frame, his face left in shadow. But Sir Gaius doesn't need to see his nephew's face to recognize the desperation in his voice.
Huskily, he says, "You don't understand. What it's like to be like me. What it's like to feel alone." He stops, shakes his head in frustration. "I can't let her suffer like that, not when I can help."
"You can help without revealing your magic, my boy. I just don't want to see the two of you getting hurt. If you told her, there would be too many secrets to keep, and secrets have a way of being found out."
It's almost like the first time he saw her.
She's across the room, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and he's standing alone, watching her from afar. She wears a gown of dark green silk, the accents around the collar bringing out those captivating eyes of hers.
His magic gives a giant lurch within his chest when she lifts her pale green gaze above the shoulder of the man fawning over her, and, like every time he meets her, he has to make a conscious effort to tuck it away inside himself. Because even though they are the same, there's an unfathomable chasm separating them. She is too good for him to risk.
And so he remains silent, even though he's almost certain she can see his abilities shining in his eyes.
He keeps his distance, finding that he is content to observe from afar rather than battle the rest of her admirers. When she breaks away from the crowd of men surrounding her with barely an apologetic glance and heads straight for him, he's frozen to the floor.
She's absolutely stunning.
"You are much admired tonight," he tells her.
"Just tonight?" she asks playfully, one eyebrow tilted. "I must be losing my touch. I thought I was admired every night."
He laughs, accustomed to her teasing by now. "You take delight in teasing me, I think."
"Only because it is so easy."
Before he can reply, their host, Lancelot du Lake, announces dinner, and Alvarr Grandcourt steps to Morgana's side.
"Miss Gorlois," he greets with a small bow, "allow me to escort you."
Morgana's emerald gaze flickers to his, but there's nothing she can do. And so he stands still as a statue while she is led off by the man who, it seems, will take everything from him. But, just before they disappear into the dining hall, Morgana looks back, and Merlin realizes that his heart hasn't been completely drained of hope.
The men retire to du Lake's study following dinner, and Merlin, a cup of wine in his hand, hovers uneasily by the window as he observes Grandcourt. The blond man is sitting on the sofa, chatting with their host. A month ago, Alvarr would have (he did, in fact) shunned the du Lakes, for their mercantile fortune, for their French ways. Indeed, most of the county turned up its nose at the newcomers for these reasons. It wasn't until Arthur Pendragon took a liking to Lancelot that he and his wife, Elaine, began to be accepted, however tentatively, into society.
But Merlin is well-aware that Alvarr honors no opinions but his own, and that Arthur's influence has nothing to do with his sudden acquaintance with the du Lakes. Taking this, along with his attention to her throughout the evening, into account, he can only conclude that Alvarr is here because of Miss Gorlois.
Morgana.
He doesn't like to think about the two of them, because it produces a curious hollow feeling within his chest that makes breathing a little bit impossible.
Arthur walks up and claps him on the back suddenly. "Merlin, I've been meaning to talk to you."
"You've been talking to me all day," he replies.
With one of his characteristic scowls, Arthur says, "Stop being an idiot. You know what I want to talk to you about."
"Do I?"
"It's Morgana," Arthur glares. "You have to understand that you and she . . . It can never happen."
Merlin, despite the ache resounding through him, puts on a smile and pretends to not know what is in store. "Why not? Am I not handsome enough for her? Is it my ears?"
Arthur frowns at him, genuine pain in his clear blue eyes. "Don't make this harder than it already is, Merlin," he says quietly. "Morgana is a lady of stature. She is accustomed to certain . . . comforts. You cannot provide that."
Merlin bites his lips, bites the rush of anger that threatens to bubble out. "And Grandcourt can?"
Arthur purses his lips, but then he sets his jaw and affirms, "Yes. Grandcourt has the means to support her and her family."
Merlin leans in and, in a low, heated tone, replies, "Simply because he has the means doesn't mean he will do so. He won't treat her as she deserves."
He can see the vein in his friend's neck pulsing angrily, and, for a moment, Merlin thinks he's going to start a scene, even though that was exactly what he was trying to avoid by bringing up this issue in a roomful of acquaintances.
But Arthur takes a breath and only says, "As you would, you mean?"
Merlin shakes his head. "Just look at him, Arthur. He's . . . dishonorable. I fear he wants Morgana simply for her status."
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. "Then he will rise in society and she will have all the luxuries she can imagine. They will both be happy."
"You're not listening to me. Arth-"
"No," Arthur retorts, throwing a glance round the room. "Merlin, just . . . leave it. It is a lost cause."
Merlin deflates, confusion flooding his mind. The only way he could know that would be if . . .
He raises his eyes. "Has she said so herself?"
Arthur squares his shoulders and turns to face the window once more. His answer falls with an oppressive finality, like the reverberations of funeral bells heard from within the tower itself, felt from within your bones.
"Yes."
"Mr. Grandcourt," Morgana breathes in surprise, rising from the sofa as he's led in and announced by a servant. "I was not expecting you."
She's only seen him once since the day of the hunt, when she'd fallen from her horse. Even so, she remembers the hungry look in his eye when he'd come to assist her. She's seen that look every day in her mind since. She'll be forever grateful for Merlin's presence then, and forever haunted by the possibility that one or both men may have witnessed her inadvertent show of magic.
Grandcourt steps forward to greet her, and she lays aside her book, a Gaskell novel lent to her by Merlin. Her fingers trail over the spine as she lifts her hand to his.
"I apologize for this unexpected visit, but I have just made a wonderful purchase, and I could not wait to share her with you."
"I'm sorry. 'Her?'"
Grinning, Alvarr gestures toward the window with his hat. Morgana strolls over and spreads the curtain to peer out, a gasp escaping her lips when she sees a beautiful, snow white mare grazing on the lawn.
"She's gorgeous," she murmurs, almost afraid to admit it.
"You like her? She's yours."
"I couldn't possibly," she protests, thinking of the stabling cost alone. They've had to sell all their horses for that precise reason.
But Alvarr waves away practicality. "Her name is Avalon. I know how fond you are of riding. A woman like you should have a proper horse."
"'A woman like me?'" she teases, recalling a similar conversation with a much different man. "And what sort of woman is that?"
Alvarr steps closer, smiles down at her. "One who should rule the world."
Morgana Gorlois is the best archer in the county. She has, however, known this fact since she was fourteen. Seven years on, it's difficult to contain her boredom at these archery parties thrown by rich men. So when she receives a note asking her to break from her party at the lakeside clearing, she does so, viewing it as an opportunity for excitement.
The hand is unfamiliar, but she can't banish the hope in her heart that the mysterious penman will turn out to be a certain gentleman with overlarge ears, blue-gold eyes, and a crinkly smile.
When she reaches her destination, though, it is Aglain Lush who emerges from the trees.
"Mr. Lush," she breathes. "What are you doing here?"
"It was I who wrote the note," he explains. A slight smile tugging at his lips, he adds, "You were expecting someone else. Mr. Ambrose, perhaps?"
"I-I don't understand."
He stands respectfully across the clearing, hat in hands. His smile fades. "I came because I can see the way of things, and because you need to know what may happen, should you make certain choices."
She can't define it, but she trusts him. She feels as safe in his presence as she does in Merlin's, although it's a different sort of safe. "Tell me," she requests.
"I think it's better if I show you," he says, turning back into the woods. A minute later, he returns, followed by a young woman and two blond-haired children. Taking in the obvious confusion on her face, he elucidates, "This is Enmyria, her daughter, Anna, and her son . . . Alvarr, named for his father."
Morgana's legs give out beneath her, and she sinks onto a stone.
Aglain steps forward to sit beside her. "I believe this speaks for itself, but there is something else you must know." He pauses a moment, takes a breath to fortify himself, and says, "Grandcourt has magic. He has found out about yours, and he will use it against you. You cannot let that happen."
"Is that what happened to you?"
Slowly, he nods.
Morgana bows her head. In a whisper, she asks, "What am I to do? I can no longer think of only myself. I have brothers, a sister, our mother to think of."
"It is not for me to say. But I could not allow you to make the choice without knowing all the facts."
"He knows, Gwen. He knows about my magic."
The two women have gone out for morning stroll through the Pendragon gardens, still retaining their beauty even in the last bloom. The Gorlois family no longer has gardens, grounds, or even an estate. Just a tiny cottage barely big enough for the five of them.
But, her heart laden with fear, Morgana barely notices the vibrant reds, the soothing purples of the exquisite gardens, modeled in the Italian style.
"Are you certain?" Gwen asks softly.
She is afraid of magic, Morgana's realized, afraid of what it can do, but that hasn't stopped her from accepting her friendship. She is a blessing, for Morgana would not know where to turn without her.
"Yes," she nods. "I suspected after the hunting incident, but Mr. Lush confirmed it."
"What do you think he'll do? He can hardly reveal your . . . abilities without revealing his own, can he?"
Morgana shakes her head. "I hardly know. How can I marry him, knowing what I know about him? And yet, how can I not, knowing he can give my family what I cannot? He is the only thing that stands between my family and ruin."
Gwen pauses along the path, a pale yellow flower in her fingers, and says, "You must marry, that is clear now. But must it be him?"
"Gwen," Morgana says with a chuckle, "be serious. Who else would want me? I'm like one of last season's gowns, desired and admired for a time, but discarded and useless after my time is up." Gwen is silent for so long that she has to turn around to be sure she hasn't escaped by a side path. "Gwen, what is it?"
Quietly, she says, "Merlin."
It's the first time she hasn't called him "Mr. Ambrose," though Morgana doesn't need that to tell what her friend is thinking of. She simply has to take a look at her face.
The truth is that, in another life, Merlin would be everything she needs. As he intimated once, they fit together. All her life she's been fighting for purchase in a man's world, and then, when she'd met Merlin, she'd felt her life slotting against his, finally settling into place, no more struggle.
And yet, he is not the man for her.
Not now.
She lets out a breath. "Merlin . . . has cares and concerns of his own. He has only what his uncle will give, and his uncle's estate is entailed away. He has as few prospects as I do. It is . . . impractical."
A sly smile appears on Gwen's lips. "I haven't known you that long, but I would never describe you as the practical one."
Morgana shakes her head with a smile, but her mirth fades and she says, "No, but perhaps it's time I became the practical one."
The night air is chilly, though not cold enough to force Merlin indoors again. Stars twinkle down at him in his alcove as he hides in the garden on a bench, arms crossed tightly against his chest for an extra bit of warmth. He feels as if the bottom of the earth has dropped out from under him, and he's been left to freefall into the abyss.
He had attended Grandcourt's ball tonight, out of politeness, but mostly to spend the evening with Gwen, Arthur, Lancelot, and Morgana. It was not until after dinner that he and the rest of the guests had been informed of the true occasion for the evening's festivities - the engagement of Miss Morgana Gorlois and Mr. Alvarr Grandcourt.
And so Merlin had retreated to the garden, deserted due to the unpleasantly cool temperature. He can still hear, faintly, the music from the band, the laughter of those actually enjoying themselves. He considers sneaking around the lawn to the front of the manor and riding away, imagines it to be the best plan, however short-term, considering the circumstances, but he allows himself another few moments of wallowing.
There is no honor, he knows, in desiring what can never be yours, but the news has rent his heart, and he does not have the power to mend such a pain.
No one does.
He lets out a heavy sigh, telling himself that he must be resigned. As he moves to rise, a noise from near the house draws his attention. Morgana emerges out of the crowd and steps into the stillness of the night, and he presses himself back against the bushes, into the shadows where he can't be seen. Barely breathing, he observes as she closes her eyes and inhales deeply.
So she is not here to search for an absent guest, merely for a respite from the ball.
Moonlight falls lightly upon her skin, like a blessing, enhancing her pale features. The jade necklace he returned to her some weeks ago in Libron is wrapped around her wrist as a bracelet, but a brand new string of diamonds, sparkling like the stars above them, hangs around her neck. The sight of it, the blatant mark of possession, turns his stomach. Morgana, though, is calm, composed, nothing to suggest that this development is not of her own choosing. And yet he fervently wants to believe it to be so.
Alvarr appears, half-bathed in the light from the ballroom, half in shadow. He beckons to his fiancée, one hand held out for her to take. She smiles, takes his proffered hand, and disappears inside. Merlin lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
There comes a moment, in each man's life, when his heart is shattered, and he must decide to pick up the pieces and clumsily attempt to mend it, or reconcile himself to its loss and move forward. There is no easy way to do either. All he can hope for is that the choice he makes does not lead him down a path worse than the one he's currently traveling.
Until this point, Merlin has had very little true purpose in his life. He has studied, he has traveled, but it is only tonight that he realizes a man must make his own way, his own meaning. With such heavy thoughts dwelling in his mind, he dons his hat and walks 'round to the front of the manor, where he calls for his horse, mounts, and dashes away. The clatter of hooves echoes throughout the lonely night, causing him to spur on his mount, to charge faster into the darkness.
