Disclaimer: I hate writing these, but so I don't get a slap on the wrist, OF COURSE MERLIN ISN'T MINE. Happy? Yes? Good. :D

Second chapter! And thanks so much you May Glenn and StolenSouls for reviewing. NOTE: To all you people who favorited the story but didn't say anything, I'm super glad you liked this, but I'd rather hear it from you instead of some automated email. Reviews would be awesome. Slightly bitchy rant: now over.

Anyway, hope you guys like this one! I have issues with Gwaine wanting to be wayy more of a bitch than is safe for him in this current situation...I keep wanting to make him just laugh at Morgana, but he's got Gaius and Elyan to worry about...I wish he'd stop being so reckless in my head. I loved writing this first part with Morgana for some reason. Hope it's not a boring read :D

Have Been and Could Be

She ate dinner with her southron guards and found their normally raucous antics rather dull and retired early. Though her dreams didn't return that night, she still couldn't sleep. It was the image Gwaine had left in her head…where Merlin shoved most of your life away…it mocked her. Eventually Morgana was pulled to her feet, and she was disturbed, though not unsurprised, to find herself walking toward Gaius's room.

The physician's home hadn't changed at all, from what she could remember. Uther had always paid him rather well, but he lived simply and comfortably. His one luxury had always been the ability to support Merlin. Merlin. Morgana didn't hold back a scornful scoff as she pushed open the door to his room in the back. What was it that made Gaius take Merlin on, anyway? And how he had lasted so long with Arthur, she'd never guess.

The boy's room wasn't particularly tidy, and it still smelled like him…the thought had dashed across her mind unbidden, and she frowned in disgusted confusion. But there it was; she could still recognize his scent. She tried to identify it now—though he spent almost all his living hours with Arthur, who smelled like metal and polish, rock and oak, Merlin's was so very different from her brother. Dark like the earth he so often seemed to be smeared in, sweet like the honey and strong like the medicines he handled, then bright and cool like water and something more.

Morgana hadn't thought about him in ages, not since he'd slipped her grasp after the incident with Emrys in the Femora, but when she found her dresses, buried beneath his own rags in the old wardrobe in the shadowed back corner of his room, she felt enraged. The idea of his hands on her things made her skin crawl and how dare he hide them here? She'd prefer they were burned, rather than be in his possession, under his care.

A rainbow of silks and velvets and lace came tumbling into her hands as she pulled them out from behind the serving boy's ripped shirts. In the glow of the moon from the corner window they pooled around her knees like liquid and seemed to come to life under the touch of her hands. She'd worn so many colors then…what else had Gwaine said? The ward in the stands was beautiful…bloody knights.

It occurred to Morgana that she hadn't gone looking for the dresses because she couldn't wear them anymore. She'd told Gwaine the truth without meaning to; they belonged to someone she wasn't anymore. Besides, she'd lost too much weight, living in the woods off of meat she had to kill herself. They wouldn't even fit her anymore.

"I wasn't sure you'd be back here again," Gwaine's eyebrow was arched up at her. His bruises were improving.

Morgana held her chin high as the stone echoed the crack of her heels down the dungeon hall. "I'm here to offer you congratulations on your performance in the ring last night," she said, smoothly, impassively.

Gwaine grunted out a chuckle. "Are you now?"

She wasn't, but she had no other idea or guess as to why she'd come back. It was a true excuse though, though—Helios had given her a full account of the fight soon as he'd seen her that morning. After she'd left the dining hall early, they'd brought Gwaine up from the cellars and he'd had his luckiest night so far. "I am," she replied. Four men in a row he'd taken out, and Helios called the third contender one of his army's best brawlers. "If there's one thing that can be said of your beloved Arthur, he certainly knows how to hire the best talent."

A wheezingly hysterical laugh erupted from the man on the ground, and Morgana felt slightly alarmed. If she hadn't known that there was no way he could have gotten his hands on any alcohol, she would have asked whether he was inebriated. "I'm sorry…" he gasped out, tears piling up in the corners of his eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just—the thought of his face," he could form words now, "…the look on Arthur's face at you calling him my 'beloved'...oh, god…" he continued shaking silently to himself.

Morgana placed a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the left, eyes narrowed. "I fail to find the same enjoyment in the joke as you, clearly," she drawled out, though the display wasn't exactly unenjoyable. "Enlighten me, Gwaine."

"Aho," he leaned his head back and smiled at the memory as if it were painted on the cell's ceiling. "It's nothing really, just Arthur. His royal queenliness can't stand me nine-tenths of the time. My habits and preferences disgust him a bit, and he's such a close minded little bastard the word 'beloved' would send him hopping," the smile calmed and he brought his eyes back down to the floor. "That would be a sight. But no, Arthur keeps me around because I'm the only one of them that's got the stones to beat him in combat—though he'd never say as much—and because of Merlin."

There it was again, that shiver of fire down her spine. "Merlin?" she repeated carefully. She couldn't let Gwaine see it.

He nodded fondly. "Yeah, Merlin. Don't think he always remembers it, but he's still the best friend I've got. He needed my help for Arthur a couple of times after I was banished and I just sorta got used to being there for him. Since by association that means being there for Arthur, I stayed…" he trailed off, looking somewhere far away, then shrugged to himself. "Figured there are worse places to be than Camelot." Gwaine turned to look back at Morgana and, to her fury, she hadn't the time to wipe her face blank of the tumult of feeling she felt straining her features before he caught it, "…Now, which part of that could have upset you?" he asked, frowning.

If she weren't already so furious at him for noticing her guard down, she might have found it funny how he looked almost curious. Morgana thought fast. "You're still one of my brother's knights," was all she came up with. "You're bound to irritate me no matter what you say,"

Pathetic. Apparently he thought so too—his eyes were squinting incredulously at her. "Well," he grunted and changed his position to lean against one of cell's sides, he's giving up… "—if this isn't how you wish to be treated, milady, then why do you keep coming back here?" Gwaine's head rolled back onto his shoulder and his eyes were shut in exhaustion.

Why did she keep coming back to see him? "I already told you southrons speak in grunts," she said, coolly. "You might not have anything intelligent to say, but you can still use your words, and that's something." It had come from nowhere, but Morgana felt herself swelling and towering, and the strength returned to her voice. She was a queen. She had enough power. She could order them to make sure she didn't feel lonely anymore.

Gwaine opened his eyes and met her stare, but he didn't move his slumped head. "Yes, but the problem with words, milady," he said slowly, "…is that they usually require someone who's willing to listen and respond to them. I did what you asked; I talked. You shut me up. Make up your mind."

The cruel laugh rang out clear from her mouth. "You think I am as little as you? You think, in my own kingdom, I can't stop your voice if I choose?" she demanded, mocking him with a smile. "Remember Gwaine, I'm still feeding your pathetic friends for you."

"And you won't let me pay you for it," Gwaine replied frankly. "And whether you believe me or not, I wasn't actually trying to upset you yesterday when I asked you about your clothes. So, do we sit here all day and listen to the bars rattle or do we start having what one could call a conversation?"

Morgana stopped and said nothing. She realized that she hadn't lied to Gwaine—she did just need someone to talk to her. Loneliness had been a fact and a determination throughout all her time spent in the hovel she'd somehow made a home of. But here, in Camelot, the palace brought too many memories back. There were too many reminders here of how, even in the midst of her constant terror, she had friends then.

But she didn't know how to say any of that to the Knight of Camelot, sitting on the floor behind the bars in front of her.

After the pause had stretched long enough with Morgana's stare frozen on her face, Gwaine shook his head and looked away. "It doesn't matter, anyway. No matter how much I do or don't do, this won't last. You might kill me before they come, but you won't be a Queen for too much longer."

"Oh?" Morgana asked archly, conjuring a seat again and sinking into it. "And why is that? Do tell," she narrowed her eyes dangerously at him.

When he met her glare this time, his expression was one so light and easy it almost made the cuts and bruises on his face seem to disappear. "Merlin, Arthur, Leon and Percival escaped. They'll come back, and I don't know if you realize this, but they're good at thwarting you," he stretched out his arms and leaned back leisurely, putting them behind his head. "Just watch. One of them might even present me with a mug of ale the second they open this cell."