A/N: Sorry everyone for the way too late update, again. It's been crazy busy times after the holidays, finished a major project, moved to another country, enroled at a new uni, etc etc. But, without further delay: chapter 21.

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Before the Queen

. . .

Morgana stands in her old chambers, sorting out her belongings. Her hand stills, savouring the smoothness of the fabric. Between the gold embroidered lining, traces of memories linger on like the scent of inscence and foreign sands.

It seems like months, rather than weeks, since she wore these robes. Leaving the patronage of the Catha, far from her life in Camelot, she'd enjoyed a short but welcome reprieve. Prophecies appeared like dreams - distant and unthreatening while the sun burned bright and steady through the canopy of her tent. Life was... undemanding.

She could perhaps compare this to the first year with Morgause, travelling under her care and protection, from place to place, shrine to shrine - but that would be not quite true. She'd been too exhausted, confused, and not a little let down - by herself and others - to appreciate the journey. Appreciation came later, but it was already infused with anticipation, each step a part of a plan. A preparation for something bigger.

But then again - wasn't this all the same, a plan like any other? And since when did Merlin become a major part in them? Or perhaps he was there all along, except now she knows it. And knowledge is power. Just as Morgause said, except she doubts her sister had this particular outcome in mind...

Merlin, of all people... Emrys, the future father of her child.

Perhaps Morgana might have known, might have been able to foresee it, had she been taught how. But Morgause had never pushed her to be trained as a seer. Even now, as her powers are returning, they are vague and often confusing, sometimes untrue or downright disturbing...

Searching some solace, Morgana feels the bracelet adorning her wrist. The metal feels solid and cold.

Camelot had always been a place for nightmares. Who says they shall not return?

. . .

The door opens, and unannounced, a servant she can't remember strides briskly into the room, a large basket to her side.

"My Lady," the girl curtsies stiffly as she discovers Morgana's presence. "I was not aware you were here." Then, without a further preamble, she continues to carry out her task: lifting a stack of linen out of the basket, to replace the old ones.

For a while, there's but the rustling of fabrics.

"What's your name?" Morgana asks for the lack of anything better.

A pair of heavy hands clutch the basket tighter. "Ava," she counters, daringly. Like a peasant encountering a wolf on a field.

Act calm, and don't get bitten.

"You're not a handmaid, are you?" Morgana observes, calmly.

A shake of head.

"I work down in the kitchens, M'Lady. I was sent up to do your linen."

A loaded silence falls over the room again, interrupted only by the swish and thump of fabrics.

Morgana watches Ava's sturdy movements, collecting the pile of clothes to wash in a heavy bunch. Somehow, Gwen had always appeared so graceful while doing the exact same chores.

Finished with the task, the girl looks up at last, and at her clothes, laid out into a huge pile.

"M'Lady," the girl turns, "What do you wish from these?"

The wardrobe doors hang open. Empty but for coats and furs. A heap of silvers, greens, purples and reds is decked out on her chair. She found them hanging they way she'd left them, down to the order in which she would wear them. Moth balls still tied to the racks, it is clear that no one has neither dared to move them since nor let them go waste.

Overcome by a strange sense of satisfaction, Morgana glides her hand over the fabrics. Smooth and soft and silky and crisp. A wave of emotions attached to each, a distant echo from the past.

"Nothing," she instructs, voice distant. "Do away with them."

Stunned to a silence, the girl finally begins to stack them onto the basket, one by one. They're all stunning, priceless, worth of many a peasant's livelihoods. But then again, she'd hardly fit into them in the months to come...

"Are you sure, M'lady?" Ava's hand hovers over the last, the silver one, as one would over a wounded animal.

"Absolutely," Morgana confirms. "Make sure I'll never see them again."

With a curtsy, the girl disappears with the load of velvet and lace.

Morgana watches her go. It's waste, sure enough. Keeping them would have made sense - they do belong to her by right, and selling them would make a small fortune... Yet as much as the threads of cold and silver, time and memories are woven into them. One she got from Uther for her birthday, in that one she hugged Morgause last, another she wore as she got crowned, one in which she felt the prettiest, eyes dipped in black.

She'd burned the one he poisoned her in, long, long time ago. The blackened jewels glittered in the ashes, and she cried and stamped on them and threw them in the lake.

Morgause said nothing at the time.

Just waited at the shoreline, for her to return.

The servant leaves the door open, creating a draft between the windows and the hallway. Slowly, the dusty smell begins to disappear.

Relaxing a bit, Morgana closes her eyes, looking for bits of herself that still belong here. Anything to prove she's more than a jumble of memories thrown together.

"Why are you doing this?" A woman's voice behind her.

Morgana turns away from the window. Jewellery frames the new Queen as she walks across the room, hands demurely clasped together.

Distracted, Morgana stares at her in her chamber. Much like her, she doesn't belong here. Not like this.

She seems to be doing well, almost glowing without her, it hurts admit.

But then again, she was always much more than a simple servant. Morgana herself picked up on it first, clung on to her, held like her own treasure. An almost sister - before she found a real one. Before she realised how different they truly were...

"Throwing away my dresses?" Morgana evades, raising an eyebrow. Buying time to put on a mask.

"No, that I understand." Gwen steps further, her wide skirts swishing along. "I used to dress you, remember?"

"Vaguely," she admits, and it's almost not a lie. There are bits and pieces of her, picking her outfits, pinning up her hair. But mostly, she remembers the night terrors, and their late night talks, the secrets shared...

That Gwen knew her, and she knew her tricks. Inside and out.

This might become a problem yet.

"Why did you agree to stay here?" Gwen repeats, silently. It's hard to tell if she expects a real answer, but the question is real enough.

"I thought it was obvious," she counters, bringing her hands around the swell of her belly. In this light it's barely visible, tough no less real.

Gwen's eyes grow inexplicably sad, a crease of digging into her brow. In coming winter only one of them will give birth to a Pendragon. For all their love, it's strange the Queen is not expecting, given the months passed since the wedding night.

Strange, if not troubling. A king without an heir. When has that ever ended well?

Th Queen observes her carefully, trying to see underneath her cold stare.

"There is more. Something you're not telling me..." she halts, sitting down on a chair. The gown pillows around her, more massive and sumptuous than hers ever were.

"I don't know what you want me to say." Morgana glares at her sceptically and moves over to the chest of clothes.

"How about some truth?"

Gwen observes her without a trace of apprehension.

"The child's father. Were you in love with him?"

The question scares Morgana, though she does her best to hide it.

"Is this where we're about to confide in each other, laugh and embrace like sisters?" she chuckles, moving back to her belongings, she turns her back on the servant-turned-Queen.

Nothing would have come of it. Much like Merlin, Gwen is not against suffering, lost cause or not. She would never join her side. Even as she made her believe so once.

"No." Gwen shakes her head, unfolding her hands. "This is the chance to establish some goodwill between us. We both know there's not much left to begin with. I know what you promised Arthur, and he thinks he's knows why you agreed to this, but I need to hear it from you. Why are here and not with him, Morgana?"

Tired from the interrogation, Morgana clenches down completely.

"We're not friends anymore... I don't have to spill my heart to you."

"Were we ever?" Guinevere asks, suddenly, like the thought has been revolving around her head much too long.

Morgana stares back, considering. Something ancient stirs in her chest. A place long forgotten.

"I thought so once."

Gwen nods, slowly, and with a swish of silks and petticoats, leaves her to her doings.

For a while, the room is quiet again. Just the wind between the windows. Morgana sighs and slumps on the bed.

The sheets are unbearably smooth.

Merlin walks through the servants quarters and empty corridors. The palace feels different somehow - otherwise crowded places are silent, whispers echo behind closed doors. But most of all - free labourers have disappeared within five miles radius.

Unbelievable. It's her first day here, and her presence has already made a mark on the place.

Taking the familiar stairs to her quarters, he suddenly realises how odd this is going to be. Ally or not - she's still a royalty, while his stature still requires him to bow to superiors.

Some etiquette can be ignored around his friends, but there'll be no explanation for him to extend such familiarity to her. And if he would, Arthur would expect his insight on the matter.

It's not about the false loyalties. He just has too many.

Merlin raises his hand to knock, but stops, as the door is part open.

. . .

Morgana is sitting on the bed, her back to him, her mass of black hair let down, slightly mussed from sleep and the lack of care recently.

She hasn't noticed him yet.

It's strange to observe this rare, unguarded moment of her. The way she still is, sometimes. The slump of her back, the dip of her lowered head, deep in thought, it's... it's breathtaking.

Merlin coughs, nudging the door a bit wider.

Realizing she has company, Morgana jumps up, straightened, her brow curved to a lofty arch. Then, seeing him she deflates again.

"Merlin."

"Milady," he grins with a slight bow on the way.

She seems surprised, rather than amused by this joke. But then again, nothing feels right yet.

Stepping closer, he makes his way around the crates and boxes, scattered around the freshly cleaned room. He hasn't been in her room since... well, since she left this place. And as far as he knew, only Arthur had the key.

"Any news of the girl?" she asks, dispassionately.

"No."

"How hard can it be, finding a handmaid?" she wonders, annoyed. "You'd think the palace is a sought after place to work."

Merlin stares at her. A true mystery indeed.

"They've all been warned."

"Warned? Of what exactly?" Morgana reasons, "Arthur promised no harm would come to those who serve me. What could they possibly fear?"

"Just you, Morgana."

She lets out a bitter laugh.

"Strange, since my last maid was crowned a Queen," she muses, almost to herself.

"Yes. You have an impeccable record with servants," Merlin agrees, sitting on the bed.

She does not laugh this time, but the joke hits them both. Rolling her eyes, she lays down, as if tired of it all.

And so is he..

Sitting together, they both lapse back into silence. Both impossibly aware of this, yet unwilling to distrupt it, to end this newfound peace.

It's strange and unusual, much like all else here. Only this does not make her want to crawl out of her skin. Or blow things up.

Lying back on her pillows, she observes him on the opposite end of her bed, his fine profile outlined in the yellow glow from the fire, long fingers picking at some callouses, brow drawn together in concentration.

She never thought of him as handsome, perhaps adorable once - in that boyish way that made Gwen blush and kitchen maids giggle. Add years to that, sharpen the angles and fill in the forms, and he's just about the sight you'd pass an eternity with.

If they survive that long.

"Do you think..." he begins, hesitant, before facing her, eyes dark and intense. "Will we ever... get along?"

Something warm and heavy settles down her chest. Morgana looks up at him, the meaning behind it... Other than him joining her side, they left things rather unspecified.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"You, mostly."

He breathes out a short laugh. "Doesn't it always?"

She stares back at him, mystified.

"You make it sound like a bad thing. Having the choice."

"In a way it is," Merlin shrugs, looking away. "It's always your fault. And there's no way you can please everyone."

"Yet you still try..."

"What else is there to do?" he shrugs, already struggling with something else. She can't even begin to boy always was an enigma - and it's hardly about to change now.

Huffing to herself, Morgana sits up adjusting, adjusting the pillows so they'd support herself better. The last thing she needs is another back ache.

Merlin observes her with something akin to paranoia.

"Now that you've settled in, perhaps you should let Gaius have a look at you."

Morgana shoots him the look. Her lips curve into a wry grin.

"And do what? Fix me some more drafts?"

Merlin stares back, unamused. She's being unfair, and she knows it. But the old man has tricked her once too many times to let it slide.

"Gaius says-"

"I don't care what he says. If you're serious about helping me, get me my healers from lower town."

"Arthur doesn't trust any healing spells, not since Uther... You know why," Merlin reminds her. "Besides, Gaius is the best chance we've got. Think about it - who else would know more about magical birth? Anywhere in five Kingdoms?"

Good point. But his insistence is not enough. The old man ended her reign. He hurt Morgause. In all that's happened to her, he's as much to blame. "Why should I trust him?"

Merlin meets her gaze, sad but earnest.

"Because I do. He knows all my secrets."

Well, she's suspected that much.

"And mine," Morgana adds, staring at the canopy with dull realisation.

Merlin swallows, looking away.

How many times had she turned to Gaius, scared and alone? How many times had he lied to her? What made her so different from Merlin, so undeserving of the truth? Wasn't she family, too - having grown up here under his care? Was it really her station that made them all turn away? King's ward or not, wouldn't being found out possessing magic have changed it all? From princess to a prisoner. Like it nearly happened once.

For the briefest moment, she is reminded of the sight of the chopping block in the courtyard. The distant, silent fear she's come to detest. And everyone else with it.

Eyes closed, she feels old grief tingling behind her lids.

"He did what he thought was best for you..." the warlock amends, voice thick. "The truth would have been worse."

She finds it hard to believe.

A/N: I've decided to include some names of minor characters from the fifth series just to tie the story and characters more to the canon verse. Their storylines will be significantly different here, so no real spoilers imho - but, just so you know : )

Next up: Gwaine's POV coming up. Thank you for following and your kind reviews! Hope you enjoyed : )