"Morgana!" Merlin calls in a frantic voice, hardly remembering to knock before yelling at her door. "Morgana, do you have a moment?"
When Morgana opens the doors, Merlin nearly bowls her over entering. She assesses him with one quick swipe of her eyes, then nods briefly to Gwen, who'd paused in arranging flowers by the fireplace to see what'd gotten Merlin in such a terrible hurry. "Morgana, I need to ask a favor," he asks between panting breaths.
"Slow down," she commands. His legs are shaking, his face flushed, and his hands are trembling more than can be attributed to a sprint across the castle. "Sit, have a glass of water, then we can talk."
"I don't have time -"
"Yes, you do." Morgana points sharply toward the bed. She nearly pushes him into a sitting position. It's a miracle the boy can walk, honestly, his legs are so twitchy.
As soon as he sits, Gwen picks up a chair and bars the door. It's a testament to how distressed Merlin is that he doesn't notice the chair sliding over the door handles. He watches Morgana instead. She crosses the room to the pitcher of water ever-present on the table, listening to his frantic breathing as she calmly pours him a cup. Out of the corner of her eye, Morgana watches Gwen give the flowers one last plump before picking up a duster and disappearing behind the divider on the far side of the room.
By the time Morgana returns to her bedside, Merlin's breathing has smoothed out a bit, sounding less jolty and more like he's got an actual, functioning pair of lungs. "What's wrong?" Morgana asks gently, shoving the cup into his hands.
"I need to borrow a dress," Merlin blurts.
From Gwen's place behind the divider, Morgana can hear her a dull thud, like Gwen's stubbed her toe on the bathtub. Even Morgana can barely choke down a shocked laugh. "I'm sorry?"
"A dress," he repeats, making a vague spherical motion with his hands, eyes alight with distress. "I need a dress, can I borrow one?"
"Merlin, what on earth do you need a dress for?"
"I can't tell you," he replies, anguished.
"Merlin," she reprimands sternly. "If you are to use my clothes you are to tell me what they are for. I will not reveal anything, you can trust me."
"It's not that I don't trust you," he says desperately, and he doesn't need to look toward the divider for Morgana to put two and two together to realize he's talking about Gwen. Has to be magical, then. Merlin trusts her with about everything else.
Gwen must sense something's wrong, because she steps out from behind the divider and walks toward the full tray of fruit. She picks it up and bows, standing in front of a half-cleaned fireplace, and says "I should go refill your tray, my Lady. You have been suffering from blackberry deprivation for far too long. I will be back shortly." With a sweep of her skirts and a small reassuring smile in Merlin's direction, she exits the room, expertly dismantling the chair and setting it to one side.
Once again, Morgana swallows over a laugh. The tray is practically overflowing with the ripe purple berries. Maybe, Morgana hopes, Gwen will treat herself to a few on her way down to the kitchens. She deserves them.
Shaking her head at herself, Morgana turns back to Merlin. "What is it?"
"I..." he trails off, scratching his nails over his knuckles, eyes flitting from the fireplace to the door and back. Clearly, he still has some reservations.
Morgana prods him gently on the shoulder. "Merlin, you've told me everything. The troll, the witchfinder, the warrior Morgause. I'll hardly turn you in now."
"It's not that," he protests, eyes glancing off hers. "Can't I just...?"
"No."
"Morgana, please -"
"No, Merlin," she says firmly. "Whatever this is, if anyone were to find my clothes on some sort of damning evidence would condemn me to the pyre, and I'm not willing to chance that. Whatever this is, it's got you mightily upset, because ordinarily you'd think about that before asking." He winces. Freya's got a knife with the seal of Gorlois etched in the handle, that should be damning evidence enough, dress or not (maybe that was a bad idea, giving her the knife, but Morgana can't bring herself to regret it - the Druid girl can protect herself better now, and should she be caught at least Morgana can deal with Uther), so handing over clothes doesn't make that much of a difference. Morgana more wants answers than anything. "I'm betting it's Freya," she continues, and the terror that flashes across his face is more than enough confirmation. "Now, Merlin. Why do you want the dress?"
"You know about Freya?" Merlin chokes.
His eyes are practically haunted. He must love her, Morgana realizes abruptly, staring at his face. Her heart drops like a stone. Sight shows her many things, but this she had not foreseen. Damn him. Damn Merlin for loving too easily and hurting so much.
For a second, Morgana contemplates telling him everything, Freya's destiny as the Lady of the Lake be damned. There must be some other avenue, some other way to solve their problems. Clearly, Merlin loves Freya with every part of him - losing her would break something within him.
But, powerful as Morgana is, even she cannot toy so loosely with the hands of Fate. With a deep sigh, Morgana adopts a confused expression. "Of course, she's been locked up in the town square for ages. Stays there during broad daylight, you know. She has magic, so you would want to break her out."
"No one can know," Merlin implores. If possible, his movements become even more frantic, leg jiggling against the side of her bed and hands twitching around his thighs. "Please, Morgana, I just - I can't let her die."
"I understand." And she does. In fact, her mind's already made up. While she will not tell Merlin about Freya's destiny, perhaps - perhaps she can tweak it, just a bit. What was it Gaius had said, about changing destiny? To alter the course of the future irrevocably is foolhardy and incredibly dangerous, Morgana knows. But this one thing, at least, she can do. Freya deserves better. Merlin deserves better.
In one fluid motion she stands, beckoning for Merlin to follow, and leads him to her closet. Freya cannot wear red, anything crimson garners too much attention. Orange and yellow are similarly too bright, colors reserved for nobility, and green, although more common, is similarly sketchy. Purple and blue are both options, Morgana supposes, leafing through her dresses as if selecting an apple from a vine, though brown would work better. A common color in the lower towns. Would draw less attention.
Within seconds, Morgana selects and presents to Merlin a dress in dull beige. "This should keep attention off of you," she explains swiftly. She raises herself on her toes and grabs a matching ribbon and bracelet, then wraps them into one neat bundle and hands them over. "Head down the lower towns. This is a particularly common color near the butcher's shop. If you meet any guards, explain that he's employed you as message-runners. He often hires orphans, it shouldn't arouse too much suspicion."
Merlin's eyes grow wide, gaze flicking between Morgana's tightly controlled face and the dress proffered in her hands. "How - how do you know this?"
"Go, Merlin," she snaps, and shoves the garments more vigorously toward his face.
"I...I can't -"
"Yes, you can. Take the clothes and get out of here."
Still stunned at her generosity, Merlin accepts the gift with shaking hands. "I can never repay you," he says softly.
"You already have," she dismisses his concerns. "Now go on, Merlin. You don't have much time."
Merlin doesn't have a response to that. When he nods, the gesture contains an alarming amount of finality. He sets off toward the door with stumbling backward steps and reaches it at a near-sprint.
Morgana watches him leave. Something strange prods at the back of her mind, and once she realizes what it is, the feeling is obvious. "Wait," Morgana stills him as his hand rests on the doorknob, ready for a sprint along the early-morning corridors. He half-turns toward her, nearly vibrating with the urge to leave, to flee. "Merlin, are you coming back?"
Merlin doesn't turn to face her, still staring straight at the wood. Her heart plummets at his silence. He's leaving so much behind, saying so many final farewells, for the Druid girl. At least, she consoles herself, a weak sort of consolation indeed, he'd come to say goodbye to her.
Camelot will be much lonelier without him.
In the end, he doesn't need to respond. Merlin lets his silence speak for himself and, without another word, vanishes through the doorframe.
