The Seer / The Picnic
Arthur was on the prowl.
Dense trees and undergrowth hindered his hunt, but he lifted the sword in his hand to hack through, pleased to recognise the burnished blade of his favourite weapon. It sliced through the greenery with nary a falter and he shoved forward with his arm up to protect his face.
He dodged around trunks and dodged low-hanging branches as anticipation swelled like a tide in his belly. His blood was singing with the knowledge that he was closing in, and a feral smirk pulled at his lips.
He sped up, spotting the flick of a black tail beyond a shrub. A print in the dirt told him his eyes hadn't deceived him and he leaped forward with intent.
A glimpse of a cloven hoof and he sped up, just knowing he would find it beyond the branches, ready to meet his sword. Around a broad trunk – around another. He ran into a small clearing and found –
Nothing.
He spun wildly, looking for his prey, his instincts screaming that it should be near. It should have been right before him.
The trees all looked the same, looming up high, gobbling up the sunlight before it could touch his face. His boots crackled on dead leaves, but in a moment of clarity, he heard the distinctive crack of a twig right behind him. Triumph roared in his chest.
He spun and plunged his sword deep, only to gasp in alarm when he locked onto the blue, blue eyes of Merlyn. She stared at him, dazed, hands moving to cradle the blade that was hilt-deep in her chest, directly through her heart.
A thin trickle of blood dribbled down her chin, a vivid contrast to her too-pale skin.
"No," he gasped, breathless with horror, and he released the sword like it had burned him.
He staggered back with bloody hands only to lunge forward and catch Merlyn as her knees slowly folded beneath her body. He held her as she sank to the ground, afraid to do more lest he make it worse.
"Merlyn," he whispered raggedly, hand coming up to touch her cheek. Her eyes refused to move from his.
She gave one last, hitched breath and then was still.
"No!" cried Arthur, flailing into wakefulness with a sob, legs tangled in his blankets until he all but tore them from the mattress in his haste to be free.
His bare back hit the cold wood of his headboard and it jolted him the rest of the way into lucidity, panting with emotion as he stared blankly into the darkness of his room. He lifted his shaking hands level with his eyes, barely able to see them in the gloom, but he could recall, clearly, the red that had stained them in his dream.
His thoughts spun, more unsettled by his mind's imaginings than he'd ever been before. The rawness of the scene, the deep, wrenching pain in his heart when he realised what he'd done, like someone had shoved their fist within his ribs and ripped the organ from his body… Arthur rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand, feeling its echo even still. It had felt so real.
Gods… Merlyn…
He glanced towards the servant's door built covertly into the wall but could hear no sounds to indicate his dramatic awakening had woken her also. For half a moment, he contemplated the idea that his dream was the result of her sorcery but dismissed it immediately as outrageous. Merlyn was not so cruel – not even with magic.
He shuffled to the edge of the bed and leant forward with his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands as he tried to scrub away the images. When that failed, he pushed himself up completely and moved through the shadows to his desk, trusting his feet to avoid unseen obstacles.
He reached the desk and paused, tapping on its surface indecisively. After a moment, he slid into the high-backed chair there, grateful he wore trousers as the chill of the wood seeped through the fabric. He reached down blindly and slid open the bottom drawer, lifting out the small pile of parchment and dumping it atop his desk before reaching in again to scrape against the base of the drawer. A push of his hand had the base shifting enough for his fingers to curl around its edge, pulling it away completely to reveal a hidden space beneath.
Within laid a book, an ancient tome of law and legislation in Camelot. Alone, it wouldn't be illegal, but the script focused primarily on the rules and regulation of legalised sorcery, alongside how a King could govern such a wily art.
The volume had been locked in the vaults by his father at the start of his rule, as it was one of the only works that regarded sorcery without bias, even while dissecting the methods of corruption a leader faced against guilty sorcerers. It was only one of the several sources Arthur had perused in an attempt to resolve his confusion, but it was the one that felt most like a betrayal to his father – hence, hiding it away like a terrible secret.
Still… it was a good resource and Arthur was nothing if not a tactician. He needed to know his enemy to know his weapon of choice. Which was, of course, why he had read it. Several times. And jotted down ideas of implementation he'd immediately burned in his fireplace for shame.
Damn the girl! He hissed mentally, aggressively dumping the book back into its hiding place and sealing it away once more. His life had been simple before she had arrived. Lonely, perhaps, but easy to understand. Now, all sorts of treacherous ideas were niggling at the back of his mind like maggots feasting on putrid flesh.
It was these thoughts that had him mistrusting himself. Perhaps Merlyn was manipulating him. Even someone with the purist of hearts could do bad things in the name of what they believed. Magic was corruptive; magic was deceptive.
But was it?
Arthur groaned and lowered his forehead onto the cold top of the desk, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling the strands like it would pull clarity from the depths of his mind.
He didn't know what to believe anymore.
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"Merlyn!" Arthur shouted in the distance and the black-haired girl rolled her eyes. There hadn't been an hour that had passed in the last three days without the prince yelling her name. The only time peace was found was when he was asleep but then she was working on the accursed Cuff.
"Go on, dear," said Grenda, one of the older kitchen maids. "And take this with you; perhaps it will cool his temper." Two cream and jam buns were pushed into her hands and the middle-aged woman shuffled off before she could protest. Merlyn shook her head but was silently pleased. Cream and jam were delicious.
She hurried from the kitchens before she could be spotted by the Head Cook and paused just long enough to take a bite of one, moaning quietly at the blend of clotted cream and sweet jam – strawberry, by the flavour – against the fluffy base of the glazed dough. She felt cream and jam squeeze out of the crack in the bun and onto her cheeks but had no free hands to wipe her mouth.
"Merlyn!"
"Urgh!" she grumbled and hurried off to find him.
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"What is on your face?" Arthur demanded the moment she had made it across the training fields to his side. She frowned at him, mouth full, and lifted the half-eaten cream bun in her hand; in her other, another, untouched treat waited, and she thrust it towards him. He stared incomprehensively, and she wiggled it insistently.
"Yours," she said when she swallowed her mouthful. "Grenda was nice enough to provide for both of us."
"Grenda?" he asked, cautiously taking the glazed bun, glad he wasn't yet wearing his gloves and that most of his knights had yet to arrive for training. Wouldn't do for them to see him snacking on the job – particularly a sweet, girly treat like this.
"Kitchen maid; lovely woman," she wiped her face, sucking the jam and cream off her finger before taking another generous bite. Arthur swallowed and looked down at the food in his hand, unsure why he felt so awkward watching her eat.
"Why are you lunching now?" he asked for lack of anything else to say.
"Because I'm hungry," she stated as if it were obvious. The way she was devouring the cream bun had him thinking it probably should have been. "I didn't have time to eat breakfast because I was checking on Sunstrider and I know you won't let me eat lunch, so I'm taking what I can get."
"What do you mean?" he demanded, insulted. "I don't forbid you from eating!"
She licked her lip when a bit of cream missed her mouth and landed on her chin, saying bluntly, "I'm not allowed to leave while you eat, and I have no other chance through the day since you keep me leashed to your side." Was it just his imagination or did she sound the smallest bit resentful? "Therefore, I don't have lunch."
"Well," he blustered, refusing to take the blame for her issues. "It's not my fault you are too untrustworthy to leave alone."
She shot him a hurt glare before dropping her frown to her sticky fingers. "It's not my fault you are too blinded by your father's ideals to use your own eyes and see the truth," she shot back then straightened up with a prim expression. "I'll set out the targets shall I, sire?" and trotted off without a backwards glance.
Arthur glowered at her back.
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Merlyn was by the side of the training yards, in the shade of an arch, repainting several worn targets when a black shadow swooped overhead. She gave a yelp and ducked, a splash of red paint landing on her blue dress as her eyes turned skyward. She spotted a large, black raven gliding into a curve over the fields before aiming back towards the wall, its dark body quickly hidden within the shadows cast beneath the stone eaves. It slowed as it neared her position, wings flapping to keep aloft, almost as if it was waiting for something. Merlyn cocked her head, a suspicion rising in her mind.
She was awaiting a reply from the druids on her request to meet again with Morgana in tow. And druids often used ravens to communicate.
Merlyn glanced nervously at the training knights but none of them, nor the few spectators, seemed to notice the odd bird. Cautiously, she backed further into the shade beside the archway and held out an arm, the raven taking it as its cue to land. She squinted against the wind created by its descent then grunted under the unexpected weight as its claws settled around her forearm, forced to support the limb with her other hand.
"You weigh more than a bird should, I think," she told it, then added reassuringly, "Not that I'm calling you fat. It's just, you're rather larger than I thought ravens grew."
She thought about her sentence for a moment then shook her head at herself; she was comforting a bird of its weight. Silly girl.
"Come on," she told it and walked awkwardly to the closest frame to take its weight. "I can't very well remove your letter when I have no free hands."
The bird made no noise, but its imperious posture had her likening it to the expressions of long-suffering she often received from Arthur and Gaius. "I'm not being daft," she told it. "I'm being practical."
Obediently, it hopped from her arm to the top of the spare shield rack and waited patiently for her to remove the letter from its leg before it took off. She tried not to be disgruntled when the tip of one wing snapped against her head.
"Ow," she grumbled, rubbing the spot and glaring in the direction of the departing bird before unrolling the small bit of parchment to read its innards. Within was an unfamiliar scrawl from a rather familiar name.
"Aglain," she breathed.
He was the druid elder Iseldir had mentioned, the one who lived permanently within the Forest of Ascetir with Mordred. If he was willing to meet with them, perhaps he would bring along the young boy.
"Merlyn!" Arthur shouted, glancing around the field for her elusive frame. Behind him, Sir Leon was staring at the prince in barely-suppressed exasperation. What for, she knew not.
"Merlyn!" he yelled, more irritation in his tone and the black-haired girl heaved a loud sigh before tucking away the note carefully and stepping back into the sun to lift an arm.
"Sire!" she called, drawing his attention from midfield. "What do you need?"
The annoyance wiped from his face as a smirk took its place. "Target practice!" he declared and several of the knights glanced at him in surprise. Clearly, that hadn't been the original idea.
She had a feeling she wasn't going to like this.
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It was dinner time and, to Merlyn's pleasure, Arthur was dining in private with the King, meaning she didn't have to be present. Instead, she was with Morgana in her chambers, sharing a meal in a way that hadn't happened for a long time now. She had news she wanted to divulge but Morgana's maid, Farah, did not know of their secrets and Merlyn did not know her well enough to trust her silence.
Thankfully, the highborn seemed to sense it and soon dismissed the quiet woman for the night. Farah went with a polite curtsy and quiet curiosity.
"Now," Morgana said the moment the door was shut behind the maid, leaning forward over the low table. Her green eyes sparked with interest. "Tell me what's eating you inside."
For security's sake, Merlyn incanted a muffling charm on the door so their words would not carry, grinning at the other woman's awe. "That was one of the first spells I mastered when I came here. The first rule of living in secret within this city is to always understand you might be overheard."
"Will I be able to cast something like that?" she asked, and Merlyn shrugged apologetically.
"I would believe so, since most sorcery is a trained art, but I cannot be sure; I do not know enough."
Morgana looked disheartened, but Merlyn let a sly smile pull up her lips. "That is where my news comes in," she added and the highborn stared at her with fresh hope. "You heard of my escape from Hengist's fortress?"
Morgana nodded, looking a little confused to how that was relevant.
"I wasn't alone when I fled. There was another prisoner and he led me to an escape route, which is why I was successful at all." Interest piqued, and Merlyn grinned in remembrance of the roguish man. "His name is Gwaine and he is a nomad. He was injured in defending me and by the time we reached the forest, we were both weary and weak. That is when we were met with a clan of druids."
Morgana let out a soft breath of amazement and Merlyn felt the sentiment was perfectly appropriate. Morgana would know more than she of the peaceful people simply for being the King's ward. Her information might be biased but their significance was undeniable; the hope they gave to people like Merlyn and Morgana – trapped within a hate-filled society – was undeniable.
"What were they like?" she asked, expression bright like a child's during story time.
"Everything we could hope for and more," Merlyn said. "They covet peace and healing and ask for nothing in return. Their chieftain, Iseldir, said they do not seek glory, they seek harmony with all things."
"That is all I wish for," Morgana whispered, and her tone was heavy with longing.
Merlyn reached over and squeezed her hand, not quite finished with her tale. "They also covet knowledge," she said with pride. "And they have information that cannot be found here regarding Seers."
"Like me," the highborn breathed, mouth open and tears in her eyes. "They can help me?"
"More than I," said Merlyn.
Morgana sat back, face slack as she absorbed this new information. After a lifetime of suffering through isolation and confusion, this offer had to be a shock to the system. But Merlyn was not yet done.
"Aglain, another Elder of a different clan, offered to meet with us within Wedgewood two days hence. I agreed, though I do not know how we are to get there without suspicion. After Hengist, I don't think the King will let you out of his sight with less than a full guard."
"Uther does not control me," Morgana said imperiously, chin jutted out in defiance. "And I can do what I want."
"He is the King," she felt she had to say. Despite the other woman's strong will and King Uther's fondness for her, she did live with some restrictions.
"How long is a ride to Wedgewood?" asked Morgana, disregarding her statement with the irreverence of a noble.
"Several hours but no more. It lies at the foot of the Ridge of Ascetir. We'd make it there and back again within a day."
"Then a girl's day out we shall have," Morgana decided. "I will not let Uther's dictatorship stop me from learning about myself."
Merlyn thought it best to let the statement lie. Morgana was nearly impossible to reason with when her mind was decided and if she believed they were going to be able to make the meeting, then they were probably going to make the meeting.
As stubborn as her father, a traitorous voice whispered in her ear and Merlyn shoved it away with vehemence. Morgana was not like Uther.
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Morgana's argument with the King could be heard corridors away and Merlyn winced from beside Arthur. The prince heaved a long-suffering sigh and adjusted their course towards the Council Chambers instead of the armoury. "Will Morgana never learn that my father does not listen when you yell?" he asked rhetorically.
The black-haired girl had to wonder when he ever listened at all but kept her mouth shut out of self-preservation. They approached the double doors and the two guards stationed each side but before they moved to open them, the doors were flung wide by none other than Morgana. And she was smiling.
Arthur drew to a halt, eyes narrowed at the odd picture. "You look strangely pleased for someone who was just yelling at the King," he observed.
Morgana floated past him then spun so she was side by side with Merlyn, linking their arms. Her head was lifted proudly as she replied, "Sometimes it is the only way to be heard above stupidity."
Arthur frowned, trying to work her out. "What are you up to, Morgana?" he asked and the highborn grinned cheekily.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Arthur," she replied sassily. "But I will need Merlyn tomorrow for the whole day. I have an important errand."
"What important errand could you possibly need Merlyn for?" he challenged, the faint humour morphing into disapproval. Merlyn tried not to breathe and draw attention.
"Why, a girl's day out of course. Our last was so rudely interrupted and I never managed to visit my father's grave."
Immediately, Arthur's ire faded into sympathy, as Merlyn was sure Morgana had planned. She could certainly be crafty when she tried.
"Of course," he acknowledged.
"I'm sure you can survive without Merlyn holding your hand for a day," she jabbed, apparently unable to help herself and Arthur scowled, taking the bait every time.
"If you like her so much, she's all yours," he snapped. "I've never had such a useless servant." And with that, he marched away, Merlyn unsure if she was meant to follow.
Morgana turned them with their linked arms and strolled in the opposite direction without a care, saying happily, "Uther agreed to leave us alone on our journey."
"How did you manage to spin that one," Merlyn asked in amazement. "After Hengist, I didn't think he'd let you out of the citadel without a platoon at your back."
"Well, Hengist is hardly a threat now, is he?" she said. "The increased patrols in that region have all but forced him to garrison himself. Another couple of weeks and he will be forced to abandon the castle or starve within its walls." Merlyn didn't like the note of satisfaction within Morgana's voice, ever wary of the seed of darkness that might grow within her. Pleasure at another's suffering – even if it was a brute like Hengist – was not something to boast.
"There are always others like him," she said. "As the King would be well aware."
"I think he is more concerned with the reports of a strange beast killing in Nemeth," Morgana revealed. "He was relieved I had no plans to travel south."
"Does he believe it will head north into Camelot?" she asked, and Morgana tilted her head in a mild imitation of a shrug.
"The information paints the creature as one of magic, and we all know how paranoid Uther is of sorcery. Whatever he cannot control…" she trailed off and her face was dark with emotion.
Merlyn decided to move to lighter topics when Arthur's voice echoed down the hallway; "Merlyn!"
She sighed loudly and drew to a halt, gently removing her arm from Morgana's. "Duty calls," she jested lamely then added soberly, "Do not think on the King; think on tomorrow, and the answers you may find among people who are just like us."
"You are right," agreed Morgana, a beatific smile pulling up her painted lips. "That is a much more pleasant thought."
"Merlyn!"
"I must go," she said and backed away with a wave. "I'll meet with you later tonight to organise a route."
The highborn dipped her head and Merlyn turned to sprint away, just knowing the prince was going to make up for her absence tomorrow by driving her like a slave today. And she still had a topic to breach with Gwen now her visit to the druids was sure.
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She managed to catch Gwen in passing to ask for a free moment after work. The other woman agreed with a confused smile, but Arthur called for Merlyn to keep up and she was forced to leave her friend behind.
That night, the black-haired girl managed to convince Arthur to let her gather provisions for the next day but, instead of heading to the kitchen to do what she'd said, she, instead, sprinted out of the castle to Gwen and Lancelot's home, knapsack of unique supplies bouncing against her hip. She knocked on the door, breathless from the run, and Lancelot opened it promptly to usher her inside. She belatedly realised she had interrupted their dinner.
"I apologise for intruding," she told Gwen and Lancelot as the wife stood in greeting and the knight closed the door behind them.
"Not at all," Gwen assured, waving her closer to the table. "We were expecting you soon."
Merlyn flopped into a spare chair and sighed in relief to be off her feet, pulling the strap of her bag over her head and sitting it at the floor by her feet. Unexpectedly, a warm meal was placed in front of her and she glanced up at Lancelot with surprise. He gave her a knowing smile.
"I doubt you've eaten yet," he said in answer and she quirked a crooked smile sheepishly.
"Thank you," she said and straightened up. "Arthur seems to forget that I don't eat when he does." She rolled her eyes before taking the proffered cutlery from Gwen, the couple sitting back down once she was settled.
The meal before them was a clear indicator of their rise in status, if nothing else; roast sausages, boiled eggs and grapes. Merlyn picked the little green berry from its vine and plopped it in her mouth, humming as flavour burst across her tongue when she crunched it. She chewed quickly so she could speak, knowing they would be curious and not having much time before she would be required back to tuck the prince in – and she still had to speak with Morgana.
"So, er," she said, unsure how to broach the topic but deciding just to barrel in; she didn't have time for delicateness. "I spoke with the druids regarding your fears of infertility."
Lancelot dropped his fork, the clatter loud against his plate. "Apologies," he said, clearing his throat and placing his knife down also. He looked at Gwen with a furrowed brow. "I did not realise your fears had taken such a hold."
Gwen reached out and grabbed his hand, admitting softly, "My concerns plagued my dreams like terrors. I need to know for sure."
The brown-haired knight covered her hand with his other, sandwiching her delicate fingers between his large palms. "Whether or not you are afflicted makes you no less a woman and no less my wife. If we can never have children, I will still cherish every day I can spend with you for you are my heart first of all."
The romantic within Merlyn squealed at the tender words and she couldn't help but smile with misty eyes as Gwen wiped a stray tear from her own cheek. She appeared unable to speak so Merlyn said gently; "And, as I told you before, it is perfectly normal for women to need time to conceive after marriage; there may not be anything to concern yourself over. Nevertheless," she added, knowing that the uncertainty would still eat at her friend regardless of assurances. "I believe there may be a way I can find out for you and, perhaps, heal you if there is an issue."
Gwen hesitated, glancing to Lancelot, and Merlyn knew it was a big ask for the other woman. She might accept Merlyn, but the black-haired girl knew that Gwen was still wary of sorcery.
"If it will ease you mind…" coaxed Lancelot, who hadn't grown under King Uther's rule and, thus, was more open to the idea.
Gwen stared at her husband for a long second before taking a fortifying breath and saying to Merlyn, "If you are willing and it is safe to do so, I would very much appreciate any help you can give."
"Excellent." Merlyn stated and pushed her plate away so she could lift her bag onto the table. She stole a bite of sausage from her plate before she explained, chewing as quickly as she could, even as she longed to enjoy the flavours. "Alright. When I escaped from the stronghold, I was with another, a man named Gwaine." Lancelot nodded, having already heard her debrief so she added, "What I told no one was that he wasn't the only person I saw. I met a druid clan lingering in the area and they took us in. They were the ones who treated my wounds and cared for Gwaine. They also…" Merlyn pulled out a small brass bowl and a vial of oil, "Told me how to help you."
She placed them on the table and explained, "There are several types of infertility. There's injury-induced, genetic, – um, when it is in the very structure of your makeup, passed from parent to child – and developmental – so, er, when you were growing up your body failed to mature correctly and its causing issues now. That one has several causes but, um, they all have the same technique to diagnose, though they have different treatments." She didn't mention that the genetic one was incurable since it would only worry Gwen needlessly. She looked up and met their eyes. "I will need a drop of your blood, Gwen, as part of the ritual, but otherwise it is harmless."
The couple looked at each other and Lancelot squeezed Gwen's tense hand upon the table. He said softly, "It is up to you. I am happy with whatever you decide."
She nodded and leant over to give him a quick kiss before turning to Merlyn. "Please," she simply said, and the black-haired girl nodded.
Merlyn was thankful Gwen didn't make a big deal of giving blood, though it was doubtful the nonmagical woman understood the danger of using it for sorcery. Merlyn would never dare to do anything untoward to her friend, but she had read of those who followed the Old Religion ritually abusing regular people in the name of their gods, stripping them of their will and choices and intellect by use of blood or hair. Merlyn might respect the ancient community, but she did not support it. She believed, first and foremost, in consent and intention.
But it was still scary to entertain the potential in her blood.
"I will need one of your hands," she said, and Gwen hesitantly stretched out her arm. Merlyn took it within her own and turned her palm skyward. She placed it on the table then picked up the brass bowl. "Um, I need –" she went to get up, but Lancelot stopped her with a word, so she pointed to the pail under the eaves. "Water, please."
He filled it and returned in no time, and Merlyn smiled apologetically at Gwen, feeling her own nerves rise. "I, er, I need to prick your finger."
"Needle please, honey," the older woman said to her husband without hesitation, gesturing to her sowing materials.
"Alright," Merlyn said, shaking off her insecurities. "What I am going to do is bless this water, then add a drop of your blood before I incant a spell that will tell us whether your body is struggling and in what way."
"If… if there is a problem, will it be fixable?" Gwen's eyes were wide, and Merlyn knew that her friend's happiness was riding on her answer.
"Yes," she assured, squeezing her hand. "There are treatments." For most, she didn't add.
Merlyn cleared her throat, feeling inexplicably exposed casting in front of Gwen. She had done so with Lancelot many times, but never on such a personal topic, and never in front of the curly-haired woman.
She pulled the stopper from the oil, tilted the vial over the brass bowl and incanted, "Ic i blétse ethis háligwæter," letting a single drop fall from the lip into the liquid. She felt the tell-tale heat across her irises before the oil shimmered white as it merged with the water, consecrating it for her next spell.
She picked up Gwen's proffered limb and said softly, "This will sting a little."
"No more than when I jab myself while stitching," the older woman jested with a jittery laugh.
Merlyn smiled at her brevity then concentrated on her words, chanting as she pricked the tip of Gwen's ring finger; "Getæl dréor, bledsian eac sundorcýethethu ymb berendnes." A single drop beaded from her cocoa skin then, with a strategic tilt, it was pulled from her flesh and splashed into the centre of the brass bowl, swirling in a pale red spiral as it blended.
After a short second, the diluting blood glowed a pale orange and Merlyn stared in dismay.
Oh no.
"What does the colour mean?" Gwen asked, glancing up at the black-haired girl. She must have seen her answer in her expression because she sat back abruptly and whispered, "No."
"It can be fixed," she blurted out, then mentally cursed herself. No, it couldn't. Not… not by any means known at any rate.
"Then why do you look so distressed?" Gwen pressed softly, her observational skills ruining Merlyn's composure.
"It, er, it's one of the more difficult ones to treat," she said, scrambling for a viable answer. "I will need to speak with the druids again before I make any decisions."
"But I am barren," surmised Gwen, her voice shaking ever so slightly.
Merlyn leant forward and took her hand, squeezing it tight. "This isn't your fault," she said firmly, meeting her friend's devastated brown eyes and keeping her gaze steady. "You have an inherited issue, which is in no way a fault of you or your family – it's just bad luck it has materialised within you. But I will fix it and you can bear all the children you want."
Slowly, the curly-haired woman nodded, a tear darting down her cheek with the movement and Merlyn released her, unable to watch. Thankfully, Lancelot pulled his wife into an embrace and the black-haired girl could turn away without suspicion, packing up her tools.
The only thing ringing through her head was the question of how destroyed Gwen would be when she was forced to learn Merlyn had lied and her infertility was incurable.
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Morgana rode from the courtyard with her head held high and her luxurious ruby cloak stretching from her shoulders to blanket her steed's shiny, grey rump. Her perfectly curled black hair reflected the orange dawn light, giving her an ethereal radiance. Conversely, Merlyn wore her usual weathered breeches and tunic and kept her head bowed to avoid catching Arthur's eye. Hotshot, the bay guard horse she was riding in lieu of the still-healing Sunstrider, was a friendly, gentle beast but he was not pedigree like the royal steeds. Tied over his russet flanks were saddlebags filled with water and food; delicate, easily bruised items that were befitting a noble but not a long ride, which the kitchen staff didn't seem to understand.
Both women also bore long blades, though Merlyn would be next to useless in a swordfight with her weak wrists. Two patrols had been sent the day before to clear their path of threats, in lieu of having an immediate escort but, since they were heading east instead of north as the King believed, Merlyn hoped they would not be attacked.
"Teach me some spells," Morgana demanded the moment they were off the main thoroughfare in the forest, but Merlyn still glanced around nervously.
"It is still dangerous, Morgana," she said lowly. "Anyone could happen upon us."
"Then show me something small," she pled. "You promised to help me, yet I have seen neither spell nor sleeping technique to aid with my nightmares." She paused heavily before asking, "Do you wish to know my latest vision?"
Merlyn glanced over and saw the bags beneath her eyes. "Only if you wish to tell me," she replied softly, hating that she could do nothing to take away her distress.
"There was a great battle," she began, sounding haunted. "And everything was red. Rudy cloaks of the Camelot knights as they clashed with black-robed warriors, blood running in rivers from fallen bodies, left where they lay like waste, speared through with pikes and swords. Boots ran through puddles of it like it was water… the sky was burning with a scarlet dawn, the sun overlaid with a misty haze like the very air was soaked in death. And you were there, cradled in Arthur's arms, a crimson stain spreading across your chest. Arthur was on his knees, sobbing as he held you and you-you were smiling at him, your teeth dyed red. And I?" her voice shook but she continued resolutely, words spilling like poison from her lips, "I stood before you with a dagger in my hand, the blade drenched in so much blood it flowed over the hilt and down my knuckles. I can still feel it's warmth on my skin, fresh from the body."
Merlyn stared ahead, unblinking, the image horrific and terrifying.
"If I am a Seer," Morgana said, voice warbling with emotion. "Then is that the future? Am I supposed to kill you, Merlyn?"
"The future is not certain," Merlyn said, feeling breathless despite her words. Her heart was thumping in her throat, choking her. "We make our own decisions. We may have… destinies, glimpses set enough for you to see –" she swallowed hard, "– but I do not believe that our path is decided. I heard someone say, once, that fate can be changed through great sacrifice and courage. I have to believe it is so, or else our existence is meaningless." She looked at the older woman, her green eyes wide with the same tenuousness that besieged Merlyn. Despite her shock, she managed to finish firmly, "Our choices matter, Morgana. Do not act upon visions of a future you have no context for. Act for now, for you."
They rode in silence for a while before Merlyn felt that the tension was too thick to bear. With a cautious glance at the spacious trees around them, she whispered into her palm, "Buterflége."
A delicate blue butterfly formed out of a dusting of magic, hovering within her cupped palm until she released it with a flash of heat across her irises. It fluttered into the air in its typical erratic way and crossed the void between Hotshot and Grane, flapping around Morgana's silky hair before dancing before her eyes, drawing her attention as it fluttered close to her nose.
She jerked back before she recognised what it was then sucked in a soft breath in awe. The butterfly's wings shimmered with subtle luminescence and Morgana's eyes darted to Merlyn, recognising the unnaturalness of its design. The black-haired girl smiled in pride at her creation and the highborn let loose a soft, happy laugh, lifting a hand so the simulated insect could land atop a finger.
"It's beautiful," Morgana breathed, lifting it to eye height to gaze at the details.
"It is," she agreed, edging Hotshot closer so they could talk with less risk of being overheard by other travellers. "But it is also dangerous."
"What do you mean?" Morgana asked, frowning at her. The butterfly lifted off her finger and fluttered into the sky, dissipating back into blue dust as a ray of sunshine pierced the branches and hit its body. They both watched the dust swirl away into nothingness before the older woman looked back down at Merlyn.
"Magic is amazing, and powerful," she told the highborn. "But it can be corruptive."
"I thought you said that magic isn't evil," Morgana demanded. "That Uther was wrong!"
"He is," Merlyn soothed, experiencing an odd sense of déjà vu. Was it only ten months ago that she had been the one in Morgana's position and Gaius in hers? It felt like years had passed since then. "The King's hatred comes out of fear and pain, and he should be pitied for his ignorance. But sorcery gives us an untempered resource of power. It can seem simple and easy to use it; do my chores, braid my hair, cook my meal… Punish that wrongdoer. Discipline that bully. Hurt that liar. Force that person to see it from my point of view because their perspective is wrong…"
Morgana glanced away. Clearly those thoughts had crossed her mind – as it had crossed Merlyn's in the past. It was normal.
"I was told that sorcery is like a drug," she continued. "And it is easy to become addicted. But I have known people who are stuck on something; Gaius has treated them as Court Physician. They aren't safe. Many of them don't even realise their decision-making skills are compromised, and that makes them more dangerous. Imagine," she said, "That a young man – a servant, let's say – has sorcery. He is a good man, with strong morals, and he is highly skilled in his art. He uses it to help him in his daily tasks, to ease his burden. And that is okay, yes? He is not hurting anyone. But then, he sees a noble hurting another servant, one who is not so very good at his job, though he tries his best. What is that young man to do? Should he try to help with his magic, secretly? Should he hurt the noble for hurting the servant who is trying his best; he has the abilities does he not? Or should he leave them be, for is it any of his business what the master does to his servant who is failing at his task?"
The highborn appeared stumped, uncertain how to answer. "I… He should help him," she decided. "He is trying his best, so he should be helped, not hurt."
"But how?" Merlyn pressed. "Should he help by hurting the noble, or completing his task for him? If he hurts the noble with sorcery, then he is no better than the noble, for the noble cannot defend himself against such a power, as the servant cannot defend himself against a noble. And if he does do the task for the servant, then how will that servant complete that task in future when it is asked of him again?"
"The-the young man should speak up. Tell the noble to stop, try to help without trickery – perhaps teach the servant how to do it properly so he knows better next time."
"Use your words instead of your magic, you mean?" Merlyn clarified.
Morgana nodded, though she appeared unsure. "Yes," she said. "If that is the best way. Though, the noble should be reprimanded for mistreating a servant."
Merlyn nodded. "You see, though, do you not," she said. "Any circumstance, any event has choices we can make, and it is sometimes impossible to know which one is the right one. But magic. Magic offers us many more options with much more immediate consequences. That young magician, he has no voice in a royal household, but he does not need it with sorcery. We must remember that though we have access to such infinite power, it does not mean it should be our first option. Sorcery must be used with forethought and wisdom – never with anger or vindictiveness. And people have free will, and we must respect that, even if we should not stand aside and allow suffering to occur. We cannot be so arrogant as to think we know better than those around us."
"How can we know the difference?" Morgana asked. "Between stealing one's rights and saving someone from pain?"
"It's hard," she admitted then laughed softly as she added, "And I can act rather impulsively, as I'm told frequently. What I always try to keep in mind is that everyone is entitled to their opinions and beliefs as long as their actions do not impede upon the freedom of those around them. And, if I should help, how many others will be hurt in the process?"
"But what if they're evil?" Morgana questioned. "What if they deserve their punishment?"
Merlyn scrunched her nose. "That's hard," she said. "It depends on the nature of their crime; the reasons behind it. Personally, I believe everyone is redeemable, but… life isn't nearly so kind. I just… try my best, try not to judge those around me, and focus on creating a place where everyone can be at peace."
Morgana was silent, and Merlyn wished she were wiser, with more knowledge to help. Because, for all her words and beliefs, she was still just a girl untried to the hard decisions; her words little more than flowery suppositions in a world of thorns.
"Magic is connection," Merlyn concluded, twisting Hotshot's reins in her hands. "And it must be used selflessly. Only then can you be sure that you aren't being corrupted by its power."
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"Morgana!" a young voice shouted and both Merlyn and the highborn jerked to a halt in surprise, glancing around the sea of trees to find the familiar voice. "Merlyn!"
From their right, between two thick trunks, Mordred's cloaked figure rushed closer, ducking under a stray shrub branch in his haste. Trailing leisurely in his wake was Cerdan.
Morgana quickly dismounted so that she could sweep the boy into her arms, burying her face in his dark hair. Merlyn followed suit, taking Grane's loose rein so he didn't wander while the noblewoman was distracted. Cerdan stepped around the hugging pair and dipped his head respectfully to her.
Emrys, he murmured into her mind. It is an honour to see you once more.
And I, you, she replied warmly. I did not know you would be among those to visit.
Aglain was not sure it would be safe, but Mordred would not take no for an answer. His tone was of paternal amusement and Merlyn had to smile at the note of long-suffering.
My mother said headstrong children make great success in life – but she may have been saying that to stop herself going crazy.
The brown-haired druid laughed, and Morgana finally pulled away from Mordred, taking his hand and turning to the man. "I'm glad to see you are well after Uther's attempt to end your life," she said kindly, if a little bluntly. "But I'm afraid I never learned your name."
"Cerdan, My Lady," he replied with a second bow. "Mordred sensed your approach and would not wait at the clearing for your arrival. He said he wanted to make sure you would find us."
Morgana smiled tenderly and looked down at Mordred who gaze up at her with adoration. She stroked a hand over his head and Merlyn said to Cerdan, "I'm grateful that you have come, even with the risks posed. Morgana was very skilled in diverting the patrols for today."
"It would not do to let our new friends be harmed by our own negligence," Morgana explained, and Cerdan bowed once more.
"Come," he implored, lifting his hand wide to guide them onwards. "Our Elder, Aglain, and the others are waiting in a protected glade. Lunch is almost ready."
They moved off in the direction he had pointed, the hardwood trees slowly giving way to ancient willows, indicating water was nearby. Cerdan fell into step beside Merlyn while Mordred and Morgana spoke secretly with each other.
The black-haired girl said softly, "Thank you for the offering of food. I know life on the run cannot be easy to keep your belly full. There is food in my saddlebags also; Mordred has never tasted jam, has he?"
A reminiscent smile took over the man's weathering features. "No he has not," he agreed. "Even I have only tasted it once. It is a wonderful condiment."
"One of my favourite perks of serving royalty," she added.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, listening to the indecipherable murmurs and giggles of Morgana and Mordred, before she inched closer and asked quietly, "Aglain and his people… will they be able to help Morgana?"
Cerdan glanced over at the cheerful highborn, mostly hidden from their view by Grane's bobbing head and long, smoky mane.
"Aglain is hopeful," he said. "There is a woman who studied under a High Priestess before she realised she did not like the society she was entering. Her knowledge is vast, if incomplete. And there is another who studied prophecies before the Purge, though she has no gift of her own. If nothing else, they will be able to broaden her knowledge and, perhaps, bring peace where now there is strife."
Merlyn said nothing, having seen the turmoil herself. Morgana had always been headstrong and vocal in her opinions. Being forced into secrecy with such a vital part of herself, forced to hear her kind be called monsters by someone she respected while trying not to think of her gift as a curse… Merlyn could understand Kilgarrah's warnings on Morgana's potential for darkness. Fate wasn't pulling any punches.
But Morgana knew she wasn't alone now. Merlyn, the druids… hopefully positive influences to remind the troubled noblewoman that sorcery was not synonymous with evil.
"We are here," Cerdan said and pushed aside a curtain of weeping-willow sprigs so his companions could pass through. On the other side, the ground rose into a small knoll, bare of trees and lush with grass, the peak still within the bounds of the canopy but separate from the forest and bathed in sunshine. The sound of moving water could be heard beyond the rise, a soft tinkling of natural music, and atop the gentle hill, a handful of druidic people mingled. One concentrated over a cook pot, another two chatted happily as they reclined, yet another soaked up the rays that cast the area into hues of gold, and the last moved to stand when they appeared. His head was bald, his skin a soft sepia brown, and his rich, dark eyes were weighed with wisdom.
"Aglain," she presumed when she was near enough to speak politely, dipping into a shallow curtsy. "I thank you for risking your safety to meet with us."
"If I can help, then it is my duty to do so," he responded, bowing to her and then to Morgana. "My Lady," he said to her, drawing her from her chatter with Mordred. "I am pleased you have sought our aid."
"I thank you for allowing it," she replied, dropping naturally into her noble persona. "I am grateful for any help you can give."
He dipped his head and stepped to the side, gesturing up the knoll. "If you would like to join us, we can share a meal and discuss your questions."
A happy smile split Morgana's painted lips and the group moved to join the others, who all stood and greeted them enthusiastically. Merlyn moved to the side with the horses, loosening their girths and removing their bridles before adding a penning spell to keep them out of the trees. Hotshot and Grane took to the grass excitedly, the forest pasture sweeter than the fields. She left their bridles by the closest tree and turned to find Mordred at her side.
Come, Emrys, he said, holding out a hand. I want to show you some of the things Aglain has been teaching me.
I would like that, she responded, taking his small hand within her own. Then, perhaps, you could teach them to me.
He grinned widely in excitement.
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Merlyn watched Morgana create a flame in the middle of her palm. The tiny, candle-like blaze sputtered and guttered but Morgana's expression was one of wonder, the orange glow reflecting off her glistening eyes. The two old women sitting by her side, Cedany, the ex-student of the High Priestesses, and Ysmay, the oracle scholar, were murmuring to her encouragingly, smiles showing their pride. It was clear the two women had lived long, troubled lives, their weathered features creased with heavy lines and scars. But it had not soured in their passion in the least.
Merlyn turned to Aglain beside her, his hands folded together within his robe as he watched the proceedings with a calm satisfaction. He turned his head to meet her gaze and his dark eyes were like deep, calm pools, knowledge and tranquillity paramount in his visage. This was a man at peace with the world as he knew it.
"You have a question you'd like to ask me," he stated, and Merlyn gulped, unsure if she truly did. The answers might not be what she wanted.
"I… how can I cure an incurable problem?" she blurted, then scrunched her nose at the stupid phrasing.
"Nothing is incurable," Aglain replied. "But at times, the price is not worth the reward."
"This time, I'm willing to pay almost anything."
The man studied her, his bald head shining in the midday light. She met his gaze without hesitation, sincere in her declaration.
Finally, he said, "Magic is the not the consummation of power some sorcerers long for, but it does bridge the gap often closed to average men."
"What of the ability to enable life?" she asked.
His attention sharpened, and he said, "To give life, a life must be taken." But she stopped him with a wave of her hand.
"I already know that; the balance of the Old Religion and all that. What I mean is… the-the potential for life. A woman who cannot bear children, can she be given the ability even though her problem is incurable by regular means?"
Aglain turned to face ahead of them once more, rolling his lips as he thought. Merlyn kept her eyes on him, watching his micro-expressions for tells.
"You would be wise to seek the council of Iseldir," he advised after a long moment. "His clan is skilled in healing and they possess the tools you require to complete your task."
Tools? "You mean the Cup of Life?" Merlyn asked and Aglain looked back at her with faint surprise. She shook her head. "That requires a life sacrifice. I refuse to ask someone to die."
"The Cup of Life is but a vessel to a greater magic, and its abilities extend far beyond the restraints of our knowledge. It requires an even trade, but it need not always be a life."
"Not even for the potential for life?" she asked.
"To give one the ability to bear life would require another to give up that right. An even trade to maintain balance."
Merlyn put her hands on her belly, mind whirring.
"An even trade," she murmured to herself.
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The day was edging into mid-afternoon and Merlyn knew they would need to leave soon if they were to return to Camelot before night. She loathed to disturb Morgana, who looked more peaceful among the druids than she'd ever seen before, but they didn't have the luxury of staying.
"Morgana," Merlyn said softly, interrupting the highborn's attempt at meditation. Attempt, because the frown on her face gave away the frustration she was clearly feeling.
She opened her eyes and blinked at Merlyn questioningly. The black-haired girl smiled apologetically. "We must go if we are to make it back before the gates close."
"Do I need to return at all?" Morgana asked. "I'm happy here, I belong here. I don't want to go back."
"You must," Merlyn said, frowning at her question. "The King would hunt you down if you vanished, believing you kidnapped or worse."
"Let him," the highborn returned with a jut of her chin. "Let him search the whole of Camelot. I will be safe in the Forest of Ascetir. Mordred said their settlement is guarded by fierce creatures beyond the strength of knights."
"Morgana," Merlyn breathed, aghast. "You cannot think that. What of Arthur, thinking you at the mercy of thugs? What of Gwen? Your friend. You would leave them all to grieve?"
The older woman ducked her head, her long, loose black strands falling forward to cover her face like a curtain. Merlyn sighed, her incredulity fading into sorrow. She knew exactly what Morgana was feeling, often wishing herself to find some part of the world where she needn't worry about persecution or hate, living in peace with likeminded people. But she had realised, with the Great Dragon's prophecy and her own position within Camelot, that she had the ability to create such a place for everyone. And she couldn't turn her back on that.
It didn't mean she wouldn't like a friend by her side.
"I'm sorry," Merlyn said softly, crouching down beside Morgana. "But you will not be alone. I will be there, and we can arrange times to meet with the druids in future."
The noblewoman said nothing for a long minute, her head turning so she could lay eyes on Mordred, sitting beside his uncle, Cerdan, down the slope. He was staring at them with his piercing, blue eyes, his brow furrowed very slightly. He wouldn't have been able to hear their words, but he knew they were preparing to leave. She sent him a small smile to reassure him, but his gaze was intent on Morgana as hers was on him.
"Come on," Merlyn coaxed to Morgana, pushing herself to her feet and hoping the highborn listened.
Morgana blinked and dropped her eyes from the boy, taking a fortifying breath before she looked up at Merlyn. The black-haired girl held out a hand and the noblewoman used it to lever herself from the ground. Merlyn released a slow lungful of air, glad she didn't have to fight with her anymore.
"We should collect the horses," the older woman said before she strode past Merlyn and down the other side of the slope. Merlyn glanced back at Mordred, but his head was down, focused on weaving what appeared to be a daisy chain.
"Alright then," she murmured to herself and followed the noblewoman to the horses.
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The ride back was tense. Morgana was displeased and didn't try to hide it. At first, Merlyn tried to make her feel better, but it did neither of them any good.
"We can do more from within Camelot than we can from without," she said.
"That may be your destiny," said Morgana without looking at her. "But it is not mine."
Merlyn felt a shudder roll over her body at hearing that word from her mouth. "Destiny is what we make it," she retorted, perhaps a little bluntly if Morgana's startled glance meant anything.
Still, the highborn shook her head. "I only want to live in peace, accepted for who I am. I will not find that in Camelot while Uther rules the kingdom."
"He will not be King forever," Merlyn defended.
Morgana scoffed. "Unless he is assassinated, his reign will be long and fraught with tyranny."
"The King cares for his people," Merlyn said sharply, disliking her bitterness. "He may be blinkered and vicious in his ignorance, but murder is still murder."
Morgana's green eyes shot to her and a flush of shame reddened her pale cheeks. "I didn't mean that he should be – I don't want that."
"You did once," Merlyn reminded her. "You planned it for days as a premeditated execution."
"But I didn't!" Morgana cried. "I didn't."
"I know," she assured, the woman's distress sadly reassuring. "And you should remember that. Talking about someone's murder is never okay, Morgana, and if you truly want to embrace the druid lifestyle, you have to stop letting emotions like anger and resentment rule you. You made an error once, but you fixed it before it was unfixable. Remember that so you don't do it twice."
Morgana didn't reply, and several stilted minutes lapsed in silence. When the tension grew too thick, Merlyn blurted out lamely, "You are not alone here, Morgana, and things will be better."
The rest of their ride was done in silence and, despite cantering much of the last leg, the guards still made a fuss when they clattered over the drawbridge as the last light of the setting sun vanished behind the walls.
"Alert the King that the Lady Morgana has returned safely," ordered the guard captain, Walter, and one of his young recruits rushed off to obey. Merlyn glanced over at Morgana and found the highborn gritting her teeth in frustration at the attention.
When they reached the courtyard, a stableboy rushed to relieve Morgana of her steed and the highborn swept up the staircase without a backward glance. Merlyn watched her until she disappeared into the castle depths to deal with the King, a bad feeling in her belly.
"Come on," she mumbled to Hotshot, who was lipping her sleeve in weary boredom. "Let's get you sorted."
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It almost wasn't a surprise when the warning bells tolled the next morning and the King informed Arthur of Morgana's disappearance.
"They left a note," the monarch scoffed, thrusting the letter at Arthur before he strode towards the nearest window in the Council Chamber. Merlyn edged closer to read over his shoulder. Instead of a ransom or threat, it was a letter written in Morgana's beautiful cursive declaring her absence as voluntary and permanent.
I cannot live within a Kingdom that veils it eyes with the prejudice of ignorance and I will no longer indulge tyranny or murder. I long only for the peace of a people who understand me, and that cannot be found within Camelot.
Merlyn could only be relieved that she hadn't openly declared herself a sorcerer; who knew how the King would react to such news.
"Did she give any hint that she wasn't happy here?" Arthur asked, frowning up at his father.
His father scoffed and flapped a hand at the note, his other hand clenched tight upon the window frame. "It is a trick," he declared. "Someone does not want us to look for her, but I know her too well. She would never leave voluntarily; this is her home!"
"Then what can we make of this letter?" the prince asked, holding it aloft. "It is written in Morgana's hand."
"She was threatened," the older man stated like it was obvious. "Whoever did this is obviously skilled enough to infiltrate without alerting the guards – for which they will be punished," he added with gritted teeth. "Sir Leon is rounding up the night guards to be questioned."
"What do you plan to do?" the prince asked, shaking the letter to clarify his meaning. "There is no hint to who took her."
"There will be tracks to follow," the King stated. "And I want a sweep of all the nearby villages – tell them anyone with information will be rewarded, but those who lie will be swiftly punished." Sir Leon slipped quietly into the chamber and the King dismissed Arthur swiftly. "Head out immediately," he instructed.
Arthur nodded and spun on his heels, storming from the chamber. Merlyn followed with her hands pressed together, equal parts angry and disbelieving that Morgana would do such a thing. She thought the highborn understood the dangers. What if there were tracks? Would they lead Arthur and his soldiers straight to the druids? What right did Morgana have to risk the peaceful people like that? She hadn't been in danger, she hadn't been alone; there was no need for her to stir trouble. And how would she even find the clan? They would have returned to their home camp on the other side of the Ridge of Ascetir by now, a place that wasn't noted on any map of the forests.
She was suddenly reefed to the side, giving a quiet yelp as she fell into Arthur, but he gave no heed as he dragged the two of them from the corridor and into an empty chamber. She staggered when he abruptly let her go, spinning to close the door behind them, and she peered around the room in confusion. The space was simple and dusty, slanted light coming in from the small, high window opposite the door and there was nothing to suggest it held enough significance to warrant their invasion.
"What –"
"Where did you two venture yesterday?" he demanded, stepping nearer as she turned to face him. She took a surprised step back, realising the significance wasn't about the room, and shook her head as her heart skipped a beat.
"To–to Gorlois' tomb," she stuttered.
"I know you are lying," he snapped, face stormy. "I saw the expression on your face when you read Morgana's letter. You know something."
"I don't," she rushed out. "I don't know anything."
"Stop lying!" he yelled, startling her with his temper. "I've had enough of your deceit to last me a lifetime. Morgana could be in danger – she could be hurt and humiliated – and you are still lying to me to protect yourself!"
"I can't say," she whispered, hands rising to her cheeks, distraught and fearful of his abrupt anger. "I can't say."
"You will," he growled, moving closer, fists clenched with the strength of his temper. "You will, or I'll drag you before the King and reveal your subterfuge."
"Please," she begged. "That letter is not a lie. It's not. That's all I can say. Please."
He hated with realisation. "You know where she's gone," he stated.
"I – no… she – I suspect. I might know where she's gone. But I cannot say."
"If you cannot say then you will take me there instead."
She shook her head rapidly, wide eyes locked on his furious ones. "I cannot," she whispered. "It is guarded but I don't know by what."
"Then – then use magic!" he said, flapping his hand. "Transport us there."
She stared at him, unable to believe the words out of his mouth. "I… I don't know the spell," she whispered, staring at him, this man, this stranger who would order the use of sorcery. "I've never been taught."
"Morgana's safety is at stake!" he barked loudly. "A person you call friend – or was that all a lie as well?"
"No!" she retorted, aghast he would imply thus. "The only lie I ever told was of omission, and never about my feelings! I care about you all!"
"Funny way of showing it!" he bit out. "What good are you and your magic if you cannot do anything useful with it? If you want to prove to me that sorcery is not evil, then you will use it for something good! Take us there, now!"
"I don't know how," she shouted, begging him to understand. "I've never been taught!"
"Then guess it!" he bellowed and her back bumped into the wall as she ran out of room to retreat. He loomed threateningly. "Take us there, now!"
"I don't know how! I don't know!" Merlyn cried, ducking her head. "Please, I don't know the spell! I don't know how to do it! Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
She couldn't see his face, towering above her as he was, but his clenched fist was very clearly in her line of sight. She closed her eyes and waited for him to snap.
But he didn't. He whirled away and was out the door before she could blink.
Once he was gone, she gave a sob and her legs folded beneath her. Her hands were shaking from the stress as she covered her face and cried.
He hated her. Oh, gods, he hated her.
That was the position Gwen found her in a few minutes later, having dodged the irate prince on the stairs alongside several servants.
"Oh Merlyn," she breathed, rushing inside and dropping to her knees, drawing the black-haired girl into her arms.
Merlyn buried her face in Gwen's shoulder and sobbed out, "He hates me, Gwen – he's going to turn me over to the King. I can't – I c-can't –"
"Shh," the older woman soothed. "You're fine, Merlyn. Everything will be fine. Neither Lancelot, Gaius or I will allow anything to happen to you."
"Why can he not see?" she asked despondently, clutching at her friend's dress and distantly apologetic for crinkling the lush fabric. "Why can't he see I'm not evil?"
Gwen smoothed her hand over Merlyn's hair and whispered, "I think he fears the truth. If sorcery is not evil then all those people who died for it, all those people who are still being hunted, have suffered for lies. I don't think he wants to accept that he's had a hand in murdering innocents."
"So he prefers to think me a monster," Merlyn concluded, closing her eyes. "But I'm not a monster."
Unbidden, memories of past gossip slithered through her mind; of the wives who pitied Hunith for having to raise the demon spawn; the men who scorned her for her bastard status. The children who threw stones and the mothers who kept their babies away whenever she wandered near.
"No," Gwen said firmly "You're not a monster," and Merlyn took her words and shoved them at the memories.
She had been young and lonely once, not understanding the connection between ignorance and fear; fear and hate. But she knew better now – and she had friends who accepted her as she was. She wasn't a monster.
She just had to make Arthur see the same, somehow.
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Soooo… hi. Currently posting from a computer without a working keyboard in a brand new town after quitting my job, finding a new one and upping my life and moving. Hours are terrible, work is draining, and I'm a little homesick, but I'm learning what my other job promised yet never delivered. Fingers crossed this works out.
So sorry its been so long – I have been writing when I can, but RL hasn't been kind to me for free time. You guys have been AMAZING. You've given me no pressure, no demands, no hate, just constant support and love. Thanks so much to those who've favourited, followed and reviewed, you've been my light in this tumultuous twilight.
P.S. I'm sorry Arthur is still such an arsehole – change is coming… soon.
Hope you enjoyed.