Merlin finds the encampment to be rather sparse— indeed the numbers are dwindling among the druids. He observes those who live there and find that they all share a peculiarity: they are all sick with a disease Merlin has never seen before. The skin is so pale, it is white and the bags under their eyes are a stark contrast, black as night. Most curious are the pustules covering every inch of their bodies, all infected and blackened with what Merlin hopes is not gangrene. All are missing patches of hair and look dehydrated and perhaps starved.
"You didn't mention this." Merlin says quietly.
"We worried you would not come." One of the druids who led him there replies.
"... You thought of the risk it could bring to Camelot, should I become infected."
"Yes."
Merlin sighs in slight frustration.
"If you had told me, I could have brought Gaius. He's a physician."
"But you, Emrys, have lived through all ills."
"And there is still much I do not know."
"And there is much you do."
"I do not know this illness."
Instantly, the atmosphere drops. All had been hopeful that Emrys would be their saviour, but if he did not recognise the illness... Merlin walks over to a young druid girl and kneels before her to examine her. The poor child is fatigued and looks as though she will not last long without treatment. She is clearly very frightened at the not-so-very distant prospect of death— her own death, the death of her parents, of her siblings, of her friends. Merlin frowns slightly, wracking his brain for some sort of solution but finding none. These poor people, he thinks, all diseased and dying. I have to help, he tells himself, I have to find a cure.
"I will confer with Gaius when I return." He says, standing, "We will find a cure, I promise." Though he does not yet know whether or not that is a promise he can keep. "I will return as soon as I have found something, anything. You will not be the last of the druids. I will find something. I give my word." He says solemnly.
"We thank you, Emrys."
"Do not thank me yet. Thank me once I have a solution."
As Merlin is returning from his visit with the druids, Morgana is awaking. She finds herself to be ill, though with a different illness than that from which the druids suffer. She finds that trying to sit up causes the room to spin and she must close her eyes to make it stop. She feels very hot and she aches everywhere. I'm a High Priestess, she thinks, I do not get sick. Yet, there she is, sick and pale, very pale. She cannot bring herself to rise from her bed, as much as she tries. She knows she has a fever, she can tell by the heat she feels radiating from her body. The king is expecting me, she tells herself, I have to get up in order for my plan to begin. This she tells herself, but she does not try to get up. She cannot even think of a spell to end this feeling. She isn't even sure of its variety. She is almost grateful when she hears a knock on the door.
"Come in." She calls, though her voice is rough. A handmaid enters, probably sent by the king to wait on her. She reminds Morgana much of Guinevere, albeit older, and she does not like the remembrance.
"M'lady, you're as pale as a ghost! Stay there, you need rest. I shall fetch you some tea directly. Oh, and soup? Would you care for some soup, m'lady?" The handmaid asks, fretting about her.
"Soup would be appreciated." Morgana says, thinking of the soreness and dryness of her throat. The handmaid bows before exiting hastily. Odd, Morgana thinks, bowing to someone not yet important. Perhaps... Yes, perhaps the king is already thinking on it. She smiles to herself. Perhaps, she ponders, I ought to play this out, play even more the damsel in distress, that he might dote on me in my time of illness. She closes her eyes for a moment, the light flooding into the room from the window hurting her eyes. This soon becomes more than just resting her eyes and she falls back asleep, dozing with her mouth slightly open and a relaxed expression upon her delicate facial features.
When the handmaid returns, she finds Morgana exactly like this and resolves to let her sleep. She places the bowl of soup and the tea on the small table in the room and sits down in a chair and begins to knit, having brought such supplies with her in a small satchel. As she knits and as Morgana sleeps deeply, she observes her with a curious expression on her face— wariness. She is wary of the woman who has so easily and so quickly wormed her way into the heart of the king. She does not trust her entirely. She cannot help but think that she has ulterior motives. She is a good actress, if it's so, the handmaid thinks, I'll keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't do anything conspicuous.
And so, the handmaid knits and Morgana sleeps, Morgana sleeps and the handmaid knits, each oblivious to the thoughts of the other: the handmaid, suspicious and wary, and Morgana, dreaming of times before she knew about her own magic, times when Arthur was only like a brother to her and Uther only life a father, a time where she had anything she wanted and lived in perfect comfort and protection. Perhaps her dreams are reminiscent, even if the prideful Morgana would never admit it in her waking moments. However, she knows she would never go back, not even if she could. Her path is set now, and she will never return to the path that directly preceded it.