Chapter 26: Sudden Death
Gwaine decided he'd had it with folks showing up out of nowhere in this damn spooky clearing, and he had no idea if they were friend or foe, or anything in-between. Enemy with whom there is an understanding, kin with whom there is nothing in common whatsoever. He was Merlin's, but life had never been more complicated.
Fire that tickled, rain that voluntarily rolled up together to swallow men whole in valleys that became lakes. Knights that wore an approximation of Camelot's standard – and not all of them would feel friendly toward his sorcerer-prince – and had enchanted swords that could kill Knights of Medhir. He knew that story, and this was the last one, wasn't it? Knights that arrived with Sir Leon the noble and good, Gwaine's new blacksmith acquaintance, a girl who looked like she could be his kin, and a lady who dressed and acted like the blonde witch who'd attacked Arthur, and argued with her familiarly.
The witch who currently held both him and the newly-arrived knight in the hold of her magic, unmoving.
Hells' sake, he was tired of women arguing. The blonde held a sword, but ignored the challenges he tried to holler at her. Settle this like men, since she dressed like one…
Then she was speaking another phrase that he'd come to recognize, if not understand – magic.
By damn, he'd had enough.
But he was forced to stand helpless as the earth came to life like the water had, ripples rolling through the mud, tossing up sticky peaks – higher and higher in the blink of an eye-
And all centered on Arthur, who was maybe half-conscious at best, after Merlin had dragged them from the witch's magical lake. Waves of mud flopped over Arthur's form – he squirmed in alarm, but without sufficient energy to escape – he was being buried alive.
"Hey, witch!" Gwaine roared desperately, to distract her. "How about you pick a fight with someone who hates you as much as magic?"
Merlin struggled to his knees to begin digging at the mud around and atop Arthur's body with his bare hands – a losing battle and by the look on his face and the frantic desperation in his movements, he knew it.
"What's the matter?" Gwaine continued, more than a little wildly. "You can't catch a man without using magic on him first?"
She curled a lip at him at that, but otherwise ignored him.
Dammit.
Merlin lifted his head suddenly – boy had scary-amazing reserves of strength in that skinny body; he was going to make a terrifyingly talented king – but his face was white and his eyes were large and tragic.
What? Whatever you need, I'll do it… Gwaine tensed in response, though for what he coldn't have said, and pushed with all his might against the witch's magic.
Merlin's eyes flashed gold, and Gwaine was free.
But if Merlin with his magic couldn't help Arthur – rolling to his back and trying to sit up, wide-eyed and gasping with shock, before being pulled back down – couldn't fight the enchantment, what could Gwaine-
Arthur's sword was on the ground, two paces from him and near enough that he could bend to reach it as he rushed forward, and it was enchanted to kill magic.
Merlin rose on one knee, reaching like he expected Gwaine to pass him the weapon – maybe he should? couldn't he fight a witch with steel after all? and what could he do against mud with a sword?
"No, you don't!" the witch snarled, making a gesture like she was shaking her fist at him.
Gwaine's feet hit the mud that was boiling around Arthur and Merlin, stuck – and slipped backward, so abruptly the rest of his body flew forward, chin to the earth, losing his grip on Arthur's sword.
The dark-haired girl in trousers and fine-mail scrambled up from the ground – moments only since the blonde had pushed her down, and attacked her with her fists, hitting and gripping her shoulders, shrieking, "Stop it! Stop it!"
Some part of the spell was broken – the newcomer knight rushed past Gwaine toward the two women, but the blonde shoved the other toward him as distraction or impediment. He caught her, their balance slipping separately and together, but before Gwaine could so much as plant his palms in preparation to rise, the blonde darted to the side, making another motion as her eyes flashed magic.
And the mud seized the sword Gwaine had lost – Arthur's sword, enchanted by Merlin – and yanked it fast and straight as an arrow, right into Arthur's side.
The prince of Camelot cried out in pain, curling around the weapon – Gwaine made it to his knees – that seemed both firmly and deeply lodged in his flank.
"No, no!" Merlin cried, lunging across Arthur's body and attempting to grab or hinder the blade with his bare hands. It thrashed in the mud like a maddened pike, and Arthur screamed and writhed in reaction.
Merlin retreated to his knees, mud-spattered halfway up his shirt, past his elbows on his sleeves. The look on his face was furious anguish – he reached to wind his fingers around the necklace that was meant to block his magic and roared his defiance.
Something was glowing – his hands, the silver chain, his eyes his whole face – and it brightened so suddenly and completely that light seemed to explode from Merlin.
Gwaine grinned, and ducked.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin watched it happen, and did nothing.
Arthur's sword – he recognized it; he'd enchanted it – flew in a short arc, splattered into the mud pointing right toward them.
His first instinct was to call it to his hand, as he'd done with his own blade time and again at Caerleon's training grounds. This was how he fought with magic – sealing hilt to hand so he couldn't be disarmed through an opponent's skill or his own clumsiness.
If he could even climb to his feet, and keep his balance to menace Morgause – Morgana's sister, and now he knew her name – and force her to stop.
"Stop, stop!"
Morgana was screeching the word, over and over, and her sister ignored her. And when had she arrived? Must've been riding all morning…
The sword didn't stop. Didn't settle into the ooze.
Rather it slid forward, gaining momentum and he wasn't calling it and he couldn't stop it and Arthur hadn't recovered breath or consciousness enough to avoid it-
Striking him in the side hard enough to punch a cry from his lungs and double him up around the wound.
And Merlin was so damn useless. On his knees in the same mud, disarmed and drained and restrained. He launched himself at the blade, trying to grip it, remove it like he might an arrow – at least stop it digging its way deeper into Arthur's body if that had been part of the enchantment.
"No," he panted, as it avoided him. "No!"
And Arthur screamed, kicking out involuntarily in trying to escape the pain still inflicted and exacerbated.
Merlin pulled back.
Not a retreat, because warriors of Caerleon did not retreat, they did not give up, they shrieked defiance in the face of fate itself and he would not lose Arthur. Camelot could not lose Arthur. Not and leave it unprotected.
His hands rose to the chain at his neck, where there was no clasp or catch, only endlessness – but there was a dent. And he was determined to have it off – enough childish games of perspective I will not have it –
He pulled, with all his might, with all his strength, with all his magic, howling and feeling it cut into his skin over and between the bones of his spine. This was the birthplace of magic, this was where time tilted backward and endlessness began and… ended.
The links exploded, each one severed from the next, voluntarily and immediately. The pieces flew like tiny silver dragonflies, out and away from him, wild in their freedom, to burrow and vanish in the mud all around them. He ignored everyone else in the clearing – all these people and he was the closest and none of them had saved Arthur – to bend over his friend, banishing mud with a sweep of his arm so he could see-
Shouldn't it be reddened, shouldn't there be blood, he could see only half of Arthur's sword sinking lifelessly into the mud.
He braced his knees against Arthur's ribs, his fingers flying to pull, to search – link by link of these chains and where were they damaged, where had they torn apart?
The sword shifted beneath Arthur. The chainmail was unbroken, and Arthur's eyes were clear and angry as he snarled in pain and tried to catch and reject Merlin's hasty-clumsy touch.
"Bloody hells, not so rough!"
Arthur's struggles stilled somewhat as his own palm flattened against his ribcage. Oh-so-gingerly, and he cringed and Merlin realized – chainmail would turn a blade like the iron-sewn leather he was used to would not, but the force of a blow often meant bones broke. Ribs, one or more than one.
Three paces away, Gwaine was sitting up on his haunches, intent on Arthur and still ready to fight if necessary. Past him at a sprint splashed Gwen, who slid to her knees at Arthur's head, reaching to gather him up in a fiercely desperate embrace, searching his side herself as if dreading the mortal wound but determined to find and begin to treat it anyway.
Arthur was surprised breathless by the unexpected suddenness of her arrival – though it was less astonishing to Merlin, knowing that Morgana had come - reaching upward for her face but reacting with increased pain to her touch.
And in a flurry of lavender-gray cloak, Nimueh was knelt at Arthur's other side, careless of the blade half-hidden beneath him.
"Where is he hurt?" she demanded, ignoring Gwen's hands to address Merlin. "Don't try to heal him, after how you've used your magic today there's no telling what it will-"
"Hells!" Arthur growled, giving the word three syllables in his agonized attempt to retreat from her examination.
"Be still and be quiet!" she ordered. "I can heal-"
Broken ribs weren't necessary life-threatening unless they splintered or shifted to pierce organs or lungs, but Merlin had a single moment of relief – yes, we can trust her for this, there's no pretense or ulterior motive in the desperation of the moment-
Before Nimueh jolted with a gasp of pain and surprise, arching slightly and letting her hands flutter uselessly, red lips open and blue eyes terrified.
And four inches of blade divided her cloak nearly in the center of her chest.
In the time it took her to inhale the disbelief in her own mortality, she was gone. Eyes blank, lips slack, hands tumbling lifelessly to her lap. Head lolling and body tipping sideways to the earth.
Merlin lifted his eyes up three feet of sharp bloodied steel to meet the darkly triumphant gaze of the witch's murderess.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur's last clear thought was of the certainty of his death, drowning in magically called and contained rain.
Then he felt someone's arms, fingers clawing and latching through the tiny holes in his chainmail. And the air on his face, and soft earth beneath him. He felt the earth turn liquid and begin to swallow him up and he tried to swim again, and couldn't be sure he was moving at all.
He felt an almighty and disastrous punch to his left side, stealing his breath again as his body broke open and leaked pain and who knew what else, and someone's hands trying to help only made it worse.
His first clear sight was of Merlin's blue eyes, scared and determined, and Arthur growled at him to take care, if he cared. "Bloody hells, not so rough!"
And it might have been only a dream anyway because there was Guinevere with tears brightening the worry in her eyes, but she was safe in Camelot, not kneeling in the mud in the forest. Her touch made his attention swerve from caressing comforting fingertips down her face, to the pain her fingers were causing in his side.
A blur of memory and impression and disbelief, obliterated by a flash of light that made him think of angels and heaven and life ending in glory rather than degradation.
Then Nimueh's eyes, startling sapphire, reminded him – along with compounded agony as she prodded his ribs – that he hadn't crossed to another realm yet. She answered his gasped curse with an order-
"Be still and be quiet. I can heal…"
But Merlin hadn't trusted her magic to remove the chain Uther had caused locked around his neck and his magic…
I was there when you were born. Her eyes said, I won't be there when you die.
He trusted that. No matter how she hated his father, no matter how careless she'd been in her revenge, attacking indiscriminately and hurting innocent people and causing casualties, he trusted this as her intention in the moment, even though he didn't feel like he was dying. Pain tore at him with every breath, throbbed through him in waves at every touch – but it didn't worsen and he didn't weaken. Healing would be better than this, and especially under these circumstances.
He braced himself to feel magic as he'd never felt it before.
But her eyes didn't glow golden. They flared wide in fear and pain – confusion – blankness. He didn't realize that he'd watched Nimueh die until her body slid limply off the bloodied sword-
In Morgause's hand.
The rain stopped – drops pattering lightly, then randomly, then not at all – and he knew that Nimueh was dead.
And then, it didn't matter whether Morgause had told him the truth about Morgana. It didn't matter where her allegiance lay, or whether she'd raised and lost the fabled Knights of Medhir.
Arthur put out his hands – encountering mud and Merlin. "Get me up," he growled, keeping his eyes on the blonde witch. It was a command that tolerated no hesitation or disagreement. "Get me up."
Merlin's hands and arms were bone-iron, slender and resolute, and he never said a word. Arthur's other hand slapped at sticky muck twice – Gwen's hands distant but strong through mud and chainmail on his back – and Gwaine was at his side once again to support his grip and get him to his feet.
Unsteady feet, and unsteady breath, and red-hot pain shot through his left side. But he didn't topple and his vision stayed clear enough, and when he opened and closed his fingers impatiently, the hilt of his sword appeared in them, whether it was Gwaine or Guinevere that had bent to retrieve the weapon.
Morgause watched him with a small mocking smile. "What do you think you can do to me?"
"I can judge you guilty of murder," he said. "And therefore, deserving of death by-"
"Death by fire, I know," she interrupted, glancing to the side.
Arthur followed her eyes with a flick of his own, and after the day he'd had, wasn't terribly surprised to see Morgana - braid and trousers and mail-shirt like she'd sometimes worn to the training field – leaning back against Acollyn of Trevena. She gripped the arms he restrained her with as though they were the only things keeping her upright.
"You see, he is very much like his father," Morgause said to Morgana, before looking back at Arthur. "Except you're forgetting one thing – Nimueh had magic. I only did what you'd do anyway, what your father would do – but at least I was quick and merciful."
That was all totally beside the point.
"You don't have the right to judge anyone guilty within the bounds of my kingdom," he said, and wished he had the strength to point his sword at her. It was doubtful he could lift it, or keep it raised at any angle, any length of time. "You don't decide what justice is, in Camelot. You don't pass sentence, you don't enact punishment. That is not your burden to assume."
"She was a sorceress," Morgause reminded him sharply, mockingly. "She doesn't deserve justice, or a trial. Her sentence is death as a matter of course, and execution summary. You should thank me. Perhaps you should pay me an executioner's fee."
"I condemn you," Arthur said. "It doesn't matter who she is or what she did-"
"She was magic!" Morgause exclaimed, exasperated, beginning to lose her self-assured superiority.
"I don't care!" he responded.
She drew back, and there was a moment of hushed silence. He realized it was true, what he'd said, I don't care if she was magic – but it was also momentous.
He repeated, "I don't care. It's not your magic I condemn. It's your actions – the attacks you've made and the lives you've endangered and this one life you took. You stand guilty of murder, not magic, and-"
"And I would like to see you try to arrest me!" Morgause spat, angry again instead of coolly amused. She raised her sword – and her off-hand, open palm ready for magic.
It was fight Arthur couldn't win – nor would he ask anyone else there to fight it for him, even now. He took one step forward, muscles pulling raggedly at his side as his left hand joined his right on the hilt of his sword, beginning to ascend toward defense.
And suddenly Morgana was there, between his blade and her sister, facing him.
"Stop," she said.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Morgana was distantly grateful for Acollyn's strong hands holding her in spite of the mud her sister had pushed her down into. Subconsciously glad for the strength of his body holding her up because-
If not for him, she might have collapsed in a disbelieving stupor. Reliving the sight of her beloved older sister, lost and unknown and then returned by a gift of the fates to be everything Morgana thought she wanted – comrade-sister, protective older sibling, fellow conspirator in exploring forbidden knowledge, hero to rescue her from her ivory-tower-prison. A mentor.
But Morgause wasn't any of those things. Strength wasn't refusing to re-evaluate ideals for mistakes. It wasn't weighing others' worth in terms of personal plans rather than intrinsic, objective value.
She had looked at Morgause and she had seen what she wanted to see – not what was there. She'd let Morgause convince her to believe her words, rather than the evidence of her own eyes.
Arthur was actively re-evaluating his ideals to discover and discard mistakes. He'd accepted an enemy with magic as an equal, had negotiated with him in a show of trust.
Merlin had risked his own death to save Arthur's life, when two weeks ago they'd been nothing to each other but hated enemies. He'd exhausted himself giving them his magic to make Camelot a safer place, with no assurance other than Arthur's word that he'd be rewarded with his freedom.
Gwen had been a comrade-sister more years of their lives than not, and her devotion hadn't wavered one bit to realize the fact of Morgana's magic – or even her ill-conceived treachery. She'd reprimanded with disappointment, and then offered her own aid and support to fix the mistakes Morgana had made.
And Acollyn. A hero she didn't even know she had, all these years waiting for her, knowing her better than she knew herself, expecting better of her than she expected of herself. Not that he'd come to rescue her, but that he'd come along as she went to rescue someone else. What if something had happened to him this whole year while he was searching for her? and she was searching for the things in her sister that just weren't there, but she'd had in others, all along.
Her choice had never been more blatant. Morgause and Arthur, barely a pace apart, clearly preparing to finally decide their conflict with a life or death resolution.
She knew which one would win.
Merlin was on his feet, but swaying like a sapling in a storm, in spite of the support of the knight she didn't recognize. And if Morgause used magic – of course she would – he was the only one who had a hope of defending against and defeating her.
For more than a year, Morgana had wanted nothing more than for her sister to win. Uther would have no control over her or her future or her magic, and she would be free. If Camelot couldn't be home in the freeing of magic, if Arthur resented his forced acceptance of the changes to his father's law when the throne was his, she could return to Trevena, which had been her ultimate goal anyway, ever since the day they'd taken her away.
But now… Her sister had destroyed Uther, and she was complicit in that. He had no control over his own mind – which made things hard for Arthur, who was a good man and would be a good king, and might free magic based on Merlin's interference. Her own actions, she recognized, conversely served to push Arthur away from an acceptance of magic. And if he died – she'd never forgive her sister, or herself. Gwen would never forgive her, or Leon or maybe Acollyn if they knew the truth.
Merlin would be… unpredictable.
Thoughts and impressions and instincts and impulses raced through her in the moment it took Morgause and Arthur to raise their weapons – and Morgause her open hand.
Morgana flung Acollyn's hands away from her, slogging forward so determinedly she almost tumbled over her boots' tendency to stick in the mud.
She was between them before she knew it. And looked Arthur right in the eye, braced for whatever reaction Morgause's revelation of her magic and involvement in the conspiracy against his father might have caused.
There was only surprise at her abrupt action. No suspicion or animosity in that clear-sky blue. Somehow, no blood on chainmail unbroken down his left side, and some of the tension that knotted her up inside relaxed.
"Stop," she pleaded with him.
And he listened. Exactly as she told Morgause he would. And she had no fear, turning her back to him to face her sister.
"What are you doing?" Morgause demanded frostily. "I thought you swore you were loyal to me."
"I am," Morgana said determinedly, wishing her sister would listen, too. For once. Taking another step of faith in those of her friends listening, she spoke deliberately. "Sister, I love you no matter what. Nothing will ever change who we are to one another – but that doesn't mean I have to blindly trust your interpretation of right and wrong, or follow every change to your plans that you make without considering any of my counsel."
"And you're protecting a Pendragon," her sister said, voice and eyes full of contempt so sharp it cut Morgana – and she had little hope that she would keep what she'd discovered she'd had all along with those around her, after this.
"I'm protecting the rightful king," she contradicted.
"Hoping he'll reward you with your life," Morgause said incredulously. "If he doesn't burn you for magic, he'll behead you as a traitor. Come on, Morgana, think. What we could be together – what we could do together."
How could she have ever thought that was what she wanted? To seduce kings or princes by offering her body and irretrievable virtue – and be repudiated overnight the moment she disappointed him in any way. Rather than choose someone who might make her feel loved in every way, all her days, in spite of her faults, who might devote himself to her protection and her aims because they were as noble as he was.
She didn't want the magic to raise the dead and drive powerful men mad – and then deny responsibility by clinging to a skewed ideal that couldn't change though the world changed around it. If she pursued magic she wanted it like Merlin had it – to protect her friends and break chains and free magic to help people, rather than killing or enslaving it.
"You are a murderer," she said, shaking her head over a bit of detachment from the horror of the statement. "And Nimueh was one of us." Morgause scoffed and shifted her weight like she wanted to stalk away, but wasn't ready to retreat just yet. "She wasn't fighting you, she wasn't threatening your life, she was trying to heal someone," Morgana went on.
"My enemy," Morgause spat, pointing at Arthur with the forefinger of the hand that held her sword-hilt.
"Maybe," Morgana agreed, beginning to lose patience. "But there are other ways of dealing with an enemy than seeking his death and refusing to be satisfied any other way. Aren't there, Merlin?"
She didn't look away from her sister, though Morgause flicked a glance over her shoulder in Merlin's direction, and sneered.
"Get out of my way," Morgause said to her, the bitter energy of resentment crackling around her. "Or, so help me, you make yourself my enemy, too."
Hells, Morgana swore internally. If her sister started swinging, she and Arthur could both be dead in seconds. If she started casting, could Merlin actually stop her after what he'd been through?
She turned suddenly back to Arthur, reaching out to grab his wrist. "Ic the aweardian."
If he died, the whole kingdom would suffer. If she did… well, not quite so much.
Another sort of shock widened his eyes, because of course he saw the gold of magic in hers – but he didn't pull away, and he didn't glare. And she turned back to Morgause oddly glad to have him so close at her back.
"You can't touch him," she said to her sister, trying to keep her voice steady. Trepidation and despair warred in her heart, to be defying and rejecting the only member of her blood family she had left. "You can't kill him." She hoped she was right about that, there was so much about magic she didn't know.
"Unless I kill the one who cast the shield-spell first," Morgause countered, eyes flashing.
The conflicting emotions in her heart sank to a sick misery in the pit of her stomach. "Would you do that?" she said, not even caring how her voice sounded or her face looked. Because honestly… she wasn't sure.
"Would you be traitor to your family, your people, siding with the likes of him," her sister spat. "Come, remove the enchantment and get out of my way – nothing can stop us, and then-"
"No," Morgana said.
Her throat ached, to join the other physical symptoms of emotional distress. They'd achieved every goal worth achieving, and if Morgause persisted in some sort of revenge, killing to prove a point or… remove an enemy she refused to negotiate with… then she was using the very same tactics that Uther had, and that Morgana had despised.
"Your Knights are dead, your king and his army estranged. You are outnumbered and you cannot win here. Leave, now. Leave Camelot, and don't come back unless…" she faltered, but only briefly. "Unless you can accept Arthur's rule peacefully, and come only as my sister and not as a sorceress. Unless you can confess your crimes and repent of them and seek the king's mercy."
"My only sisters were killed by Uther Pendragon on a forgotten Isle," Morgause declared wrathfully.
Morgana took a breath that seemed unable to fill the emptiness expanding in her chest. Morgause looked at each face of the rest surrounding them – arrayed against her, and not interrupting their confrontation.
"Very well," she said, eyes sparking fire. "Today is yours, Morgana. But this is not goodbye."
She backed away from them, clearly wary that someone would attack her, were she to turn her back. When she reached the statues of the Kings she paused as if startled, to glance up at one first then the other – then she whirled and stalked swiftly down the valley, out of sight.
Morgana turned instinctively, initial relief chilling to realize, it wasn't over. She felt the weight of the others' gaze like Morgause must have felt it, evaluating the worth of her words and motives prior to some form of judgment. Some of them had known some of her secrets, but no one had known them all – and now they did. Would it change what they thought of her and felt for her? Some of their opinions mattered more than others – Acollyn, Gwen…
She met no one's eyes but Arthur's. And was struck by the similarity of his expression to her memory of the day when she'd first beaten him in sword-craft. Confusion – what just happened? – moving toward realization, and a sort of dismay for the future. What would his father say or do? what would everyone else say or think? how would this change him in reaction?
It was loss she saw there. More than just one sparring match on the training field. Loss of trust, loss of perceived identity, loss of…
Her, she realized. Maybe he'd looked exactly like this the morning after she left Camelot. Confused, beginning to realize what happened, what it meant for the future.
Because she'd made him feel again as if he'd lost her. And she hadn't even allowed him a say in the matter. As she hadn't been allowed a say when her father was sent to war…
"I'm sorry," she blurted. And found herself stepping closer to put her arms around him – chainmail, and maybe he was wounded, she didn't know, so gently. But, "I'm so sorry, Arthur. For all of it."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur couldn't help thinking that they'd been right, a year ago – that Morgana had been lost to them.
They hadn't found her, either. She'd been returned to them as an enemy spy, just like Morgause said. All those doubts about Morgana's story, all the questions left unanswered because he didn't want to push if she was traumatized.
She didn't look or act traumatized. She'd been taken very good care of. By her sister, Morgause – and how long had they known of that relationship? Ever since the older blonde had come fitted as a lone knight into Camelot to challenge him? That plan hadn't worked – lure you out of Camelot, tell you what your father had done to your mother…
This one worked well enough. Every breath tore at his side and he had a regency waiting for him when – and if – he returned to Camelot, because his father's magically-induced illness might have permanently damaged his mind.
And for what? For magic, that turned friend against friend – I was her friend, I was Uther's friend, I was welcomed in Camelot – then and now.
But no. He and Merlin had crossed those lines in the other direction, foe becoming friend. It wasn't magic that warped emotions and affected choices, then, it was… fear.
Fear that he saw on Morgana's face as she turned from watching Morgause disappear, and focused on him, so uncharacteristically timid. And when she touched him, he couldn't help flinching, because… it hurt.
"I'm sorry," she said, the stark honesty in her voice catching at him with jagged edges. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. For all of it."
He could believe her. He could even glimpse why she'd think she couldn't tell any of them where she was going a year ago, and then where she'd been and who with and why. But-
"You cursed my father," he said down at the top of her head. Mud-splattered; he could feel his own dripping down the sides of his jaw, over his ears and down the back of his neck. She pulled back, eyes dark and tragic in the white of her face. "The enchantment that drove him mad."
"Yes," she said. Terrified, but holding his eyes. And not repeating her apology.
"You hate - him that much?" he asked huskily. Almost he said us, but found that unbearable. Her arms still circled his ribs, but he hadn't so much as lifted his in response.
"He would have killed me if he knew I had magic," she said. "And I didn't choose to learn it, it just came to me – it was in my family, it was in my blood-"
"He wouldn't have killed you," Arthur said. His throat hurt and his heart keened with irreparable regret. "He couldn't have. He adored you, he gave you everything you ever wanted-"
"Not everything," Morgana contradicted in a low voice, taking her arms back. "Not freedom. But I… Arthur, the truth is that I wanted him to relive his guilt for what he'd done to innocent people because he hated magic. I thought that a fair punishment. I didn't know – I don't think Morgause cared – Merlin said, that enchantment was… wasn't what I thought it was. But it was too late by then. I burned the root, but…"
But it was too late.
And of course she knew about Morgause and Cenred and the Knights. She'd informed on his weakness to his enemies…
Arthur breathed, and closed his eyes. What a horrible, careless mistake. And Merlin had known that she was the sorceress who'd placed the cursed object, and never told Arthur…
Merlin who'd crossed the border at his king's command to try to raid without violence and blood. Another horrible, careless mistake that had cost lives – that gave the young prince nightmares. What he'd helped set in motion and couldn't stop until it was too late.
What Arthur had forgiven him for because of the long-buried seed of regret in his own heart. A raid long ago where the mistakes had been his own, horrible and careless and fatal, making incorrect assumptions about obedience due a king and the expectation of his own level of control over the situation.
And his father had congratulated and praised him, when he returned to Camelot. And so would the king of Caerleon have done if Merlin had gone home triumphant rather than surrender to prevent further death. And so would Morgause have done if Morgana had returned to her rather than…
Surrender to him to prevent his death.
Maybe that made both Merlin and Morgana better people than he was.
He opened his eyes and felt drops of moisture slide over the drying spattered mud on his face. Morgana's eyes glistened with tears also – fear and hope mingled. And even though it hurt, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around Morgana's shoulders.
"I forgive you," he said.
A/N: So this is the end of the action-action. I anticipate 2 more chapters of aftermath and clean-up and concluding remarks and so on, and an epilogue several months into the future, taking place at a wedding (how's that for spoilers? you won't know whose for a month!). This one is shorter, and therefore you get it sooner, but I think I'll only be able to manage one more before I put it on hold for November. Sorry I wasn't able to mark it complete, but at least we're past the cliffies…