Disclaimer: I am not affiliated in any way with the BBC and I do not own Merlin or any of its characters. I am using them for entertainment purposes under the fair use and/or transformative works clause.
Morgana sways gently on her horse as the three ride through the forest, following Gaius' hand drawn directions to the village of Pataglen. The atmosphere is tense and the air chilly, wintergreen leaves tumbling about their shoulders and dappling the light in a way that seems threatening. The sky is darkening; the moon, a waxing gibbous, will not rise fully until later and Morgana realises that they will probably need to stop soon, to eat, water the horses, and rest. Although she would gladly have kept riding through the night, her energy is depleting. None of them will be any good to Gwen exhausted.
She watches Merlin's slim back shudder as he gestures to Arthur, chattering blithely. Arthur has been more surly than usual (if Morgana had not been so distracted by her own feelings and worries, she might have thought this was unusual; as it is, she has little mental space to spare for Arthur's problems) and Merlin has spent the entire ride joking and insulting the prince to lift his spirits. Morgana isn't quite sure how a bantering argument about the precise definition of 'clot pole' is supposed to be cheering, but it seems to be working.
As the path is wide enough only for two horses, Morgana has allowed Arthur and Merlin to ride together and she has cantered quietly behind, taking in her surroundings from beneath the wide hood of her soft green cloak. She has a lot to think about: namely, this new ability that she and Merlin seem to share. Morgana has had her suspicions about Merlin's abilities almost since he came to Camelot; she was so sure that she'd seen him use Magic to defeat that afanc creature, had even begun to confront him about it, but something in his expression had stopped her and she's ended up pretending she'd merely been talking about Gwen.
There were other things, too: the flint intended to start the fire in Ealdor had surely been faulty, yet Merlin had lit the wood within seconds. Had it been luck? Or had it been sorcery? And why, if he had nothing at all to do with magic, had he been so keen to help her come to terms with her own? Morgana is warming to her subject as the trio trot around a slight bend and find themselves in an open clearing.
Arthur turns his head to speak to her. "If you're agreeable, we'll stop here. We need to sleep and the horses could do with a drink."
Morgana nods, sliding off her animal and speaking softly to the beast, soothing and gentle. The long ride has left her sore and aching, but it had been worth it: Morgana has a plan.
Silence creeps into the clearing along with darkness as the rescue party makes ready their camp for the night, cooperating to gather wood and pile it neatly, waiting for flame. They work quickly, bellies sore with hunger, and once the dry bracken is stacked and ready, Morgana allots herself the task of lighting the flames. Arthur has disappeared out of the clearing to water the horses at a nearby stream, and Merlin is busy with the saddle bags. He kneels on the ground, groping in the half light among the fabric, looking for food and saucepans.
'Merlin,' Morgana calls softly inside her head. The ability seems to come more easily this time, words viscous and visible, dripping a deep black that cannot be contained in only a single mind. It thrills her.
Merlin turns and his teeth glow white in a grin, the light of the rising moon bouncing off his cheekbones and shadowing his face. 'Yes, my lady?' he sends back to her.
'Can you...help...me? I can't light this fire,' Morgana lies, standing and brushing grass off her knees. Her heart is thudding like some odd, ancient ritual drum. Something has to give this time. He'll tell her, he has to.
He nods briskly, clattering saucepans into a single hand and moving to her side quickly, letting the food fall by the side of the hearth. He holds out a hand and she drops the fire lighting steel into his palm, trying not to look at his face, trying to act casually.
Merlin kneels in the grass flattened by her body and she watches the steel glimmer and gleam under the harsh moonlight. "Do you have the flint? Sorry, did I drop it?" Merlin mutters, looking at the ground by his feet.
Morgana feels her heart shudder and almost stop as she folds her arms and states, "I think we both know that you don't need a flint to light a fire."
Merlin glances up sharply, and Morgana curses herself for not doing this in the daylight. She can make out a brief flash of panic quickly hidden by blankness, but the nuances of his expression are lost to her. "I don't know what you mean," he says slowly.
"Don't lie to me. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"No, my lady, I don't!" Merlin denies quickly, as though hoping the formality will diffuse the situation somewhat. Morgana cannot tell whether his voice holds genuine confusion or whether it's just a shield against her interrogation.
"Well, you certainly seemed perfectly capable of lighting a fire without a tool back in Ealdor," Morgana hedges. She feels immediately guilty for bringing up the topic, as the sudden shock of pain at the memory of his village is visible even in the half light.
"Please just give me the flint," Merlin says, holding out his hand, impatient now.
Morgana feels a flutter of anxiety in her stomach at his consistent denial. She'd been so sure this would break him. Could she have been wrong about his abilities? She lifts her chin and says calmly, "Light the fire."
"Give me the flint."
"Light. The. Fire."
Merlin sighs audibly, "Morgana, I feel like you're confusing the order in which these steps need to happen."
Morgana grits her teeth. Why won't he just tell her? "Do you not trust me? Because I put a lot of trust in you and I don't understand why you won't just tell me this. Can't you see how much it would mean to me?" she exclaims, praying internally to all the gods she knows of that she isn't wrong about this.
Merlin shakes his head. Morgana tries another tactic. 'Please?' she sends to him. 'You don't have to say it out loud.'
Merlin does not reply to her in their silent lexicon. "Give me the flint, please, my lady," he requests tiredly.
"Light the fire!" she contends, hovering now on the edge of anger. "Just light the bloody fire, Merlin!"
For a moment Merlin looks up at her, her figure tall and standing over him, backlit by the sheening moon. Her cloak shadows her face and Morgana feels for a second all that he can see when he looks at her. Glorius. Brilliant. Terrifying. She shivers, not breaking the gaze, and almost sighs with relief as Merlin makes his head nod slowly. His lips fall open and he seems about to confess to something momentous.
"I can hear shouting, please don't tell me you two are arguing, that's all we need," Arthur re-enters the glade, smashing the confessional moment between them as ably as if he'd held a hammer.
"What would the two of you even have to fight about?" he seems vaguely suspicious as he stomps to the closest log and removes his boots. "Merlin? Morgana? The problem is...?"
Morgana steadies herself and does not allow her disappointment to show in her voice.
"Nothing's wrong. Merlin can't see what's in front of his eyes, as usual," she says sweetly. As she storms silently out of the glade, intending to visit the stream to cool her raging emotions, Morgana casually lets the flint fall from the wide sleeve of her cloak, dropping it at Merlin's feet.
It's much later, after their hasty, anxious supper of beans and barely bread, when Merlin breaks into Morgana's aggrieved silence.
"I brought an extra blanket for you. It's cold," Merlin's soft voice sounds like an apology to Morgana. She uncurls herself from her tight covering of her cloak and reaches for the soft blue wool blanket held in his outstretched fingertips like a peace offering. Morgana had been angry at his refusal to acknowledge her, but now she merely feels sad, homesick, and confused. If she was wrong about him, then she really is all alone in Camelot, and she doesn't want to lose her friendship with him. Tears prick her eyes at his kind gesture as wraps the blanket tightly around her body.
"Thank you. Will you be warm enough?" she asks him softly.
"Ah, I'll be fine. I've slept in places a lot colder than this," he gives her a cheerful smile of forgiveness.
Morgana twists the blanket awkwardly in her hands. "About earlier..."
"It's fine."
"No, it's not. I'm sorry, Merlin, it was a dangerous thing I was accusing you of. I just...I just feel so alone. I hope you can understand."
The darkness clouds Merlin's expression; he is unreadable. Morgana feels genuine guilt about her earlier anger at him, but if she is honest, a small part of her is hoping that her apology will prompt a confession. His words, when he speaks, contain that frustratingly vague empathy that merely serves to fuel Morgana's suspicions.
"I understand better than anyone," he tells her gently, before turning and retiring to his sleeping berth on the other side of the hearth.
Morgana feels salty drops trickle down her face in the darkness. She's so very tired of being all alone. She feels a ridiculously inappropriate desire to cross the flames with her blankets and lie down next to Merlin, curling herself into the harsh bones of his body, for comfort and warmth and some sort of reduction of her isolation. Instead, she forms a thought and sends it shakily across to him. 'Sleep well.'
'Sleep well, Morgana,' he replies.
