The next day feels more like a torturous continuation of the feast night than a new day. Morgana blinks hard at the light streaming in through windows; the haze shadowing the sleepless night refuses to dissipate. Glauchedon is eerily quiet.
There are so many things she could be, should be doing this instant. From communicating to her father to resuming the daily training of the surviving troops, she has too many reasons to keep from idleness.
And yet. The shadows are too loud and too many for her to be able to focus completely on anything. The best she has been able to do is complete the preliminary report; the remaining half of her letter to her father lies abandoned on the desk.
Morgana is trying to think up what else to write while pacing around her outer chambers. She has just managed to part the fog in her mind long enough to craft one particularly clever turn of phrase when the door to the corridor slams open to reveal her sister.
"You are needed."
It is so like her sister to directly get to the point, not bothering even to apologize for the abruptness of her entrance. Morgana blinks hard again to focus her mind. There are any number of things Morgause could be referring to.
"Needed?"
Morgause slams the door shut.
"You haven't visited Keredic."
Morgana suddenly feels icy cold. Nevertheless, she keeps her voice even.
"I have not had the opportunity to, no."
"You haven't the time to dawdle," Morgause snaps. "We're going, now."
"What does it matter if I visit a little late?" Morgana hates how petulantly the words come out. Morgause looks at her as if she has gone mad.
"His condition is already unstable," she says slowly, as if Morgana is a simpleton. "You must hurry if you're to save him."
No. No, no, no. Morgause could not be asking this of her. Not even the best healers available had been able to heal him, so Morgause could not be asking anything else. To heal, truly heal, and risk everything she had already given up so much to keep. Of all the unthinkable—
Morgana gathers her thoughts and glares, trying her hardest to keep her gaze steady. "I can't. You know I can't. Sister-"
Morgause grabs her by the shoulders, cutting her off. "You can and you will. Now is not the time to be making childish excuses. Go."
Morgana shakes her head, digging her nails into Morgause's hands to wrench them off her.
"You can't make me. I can see them already, Morgause. I can't risk it."
"Your little ghosts?" Morgause snorts. "I will tell you what you cannot risk—Rodor withdrawing from the alliance and swearing vengeance on Cornwall. That's what he's shouting right now, Morgana. He blames you for not protecting Keredic."
Bile rises up Morgana's throat.
"It was not my fault," she spits out. "Keredic should never have come."
"Does it matter?" Morgause spreads her arms. "He is dying, and his father blames you. If you don't at least try to stop him, he may very well march for Tintagel the moment this war ends."
"Arthur won't let him."
"You think Arthur will be able to stop him?" Morgause pauses, looking at Morgana. "And are you going to put him in that situation?"
Morgana hesitates.
"His injury was not my fault," she repeats, haltingly.
"Yes, but Rodor's invasion will be if you don't heal Keredic." Morgause takes her hands. "I would do it in your stead if I could."
Morgana takes a breath. "And-and if something… happens," she whispers. "If I lose myself-"
Morgause steps toward her and embraces her fiercely. "I won't let you. You're the only one who can do this."
Morgana hugs her back.
"Stay with me when I-"
"I will." Morgause lets go of her. "We can't lose more time." She takes Morgana's hand again and tugs her gently toward Keredic's room. Inhaling nervously, Morgana pushes it open and steps in.
The dim light filtering through the draped windows barely illuminates the room. Keredic lies on stark white sheets, ghostly pale and motionless as he is attended by five or six healers and their attendants. Rodor and Mithian hover near the headboards, anxiously watching the healers at work. Morgana starts as she sees Arthur sitting in a chair, Merlin with him as always. He nods at her when he sees her, his face unusually grim.
Morgause sweeps in, her imperious presence immediately drawing everyone's attention. The healers give hurried bows and curtsies before turning back to the unmoving Keredic.
Rodor growls. "You." He looks past Morgause to Morgana, and Mithian puts a calming hand on her father's arm before he says anything more. Morgana shrinks back a little, stepping behind her sister. Her gaze flits to Arthur, whose frown deepens.
Morgause snaps at the healers. "Out".
They hesitate, giving uncertain looks to Rodor. The king swells up, ruddy with rage.
"You dare barge in here and order people out? My son is dying because of that- that wench. Get out before I-"
Morgause raises her voice, ignoring him. "Out!"
The healers scurry out at the hint of magic flickering in the sorceress's irises. Morgause slams the door after them and seals it before turning to Morgana.
Clutching her trembling fingers, Morgana steps toward Keredic's bed in the unnatural silence that falls. Rodor makes a move to stop her, but Mithian restrains her father once again.
Morgana stands at the bedside and looks down at Keredic. He looks like a wax doll, still but for the shallow, halting breaths struggling through his body.
Poor dumb Keredic. His stupid pride had been his downfall and hers. If only he had relented and stayed with the troops guarding the camp—if only he had never volunteered to "aid" her. If only he had never met her.
Morgana takes another shuddering breath, carefully laying her hands over Keredic's bandaged wound. His shirtless torso is sweaty to her clammy touch. She clenches her eyes shut and calls to that core of magic long ignored by her.
Distantly she can hear Merlin shooting up from his seat. "What…what are you doing? Morgana, what magic—"
His voice sounds far off; it blends into the silence as she gathers more of her newly tapped power. It rises up eagerly, unfurling from deep inside her to flow through her veins and straining against her skin—
Her eyes snap open. "Heal," she breathes. "Heal."
The power rushes through her arms and pours out of her hands into Keredic's wound. It's not the paltry healing charms Keredic's taught her—the raw force of life flows through her into him. No use for the archaic language of spells; she knows this magic transcends such trappings. She can almost feel her eyes glowing with the intensity of this magic as his wound seals and disappears under her hands.
Morgana inhales a great gulp of air as Keredic stirs, breaking the conduit. The heady rush of magic abruptly ceases. Morgana slips her hands away, trying to compose herself. Keredic stirs again, and Rodor and Mithian rush to his side, the bed separating them from Morgana. Mithian takes Keredic's hand.
"He's warm again, she breathes wonderingly, turning hopeful eyes on Morgana. "Please, you can save him."
Morgause walks to her side and moves Morgana's hands to Keredic's wound again. "Keep going, Morgana."
Morgana clenches her jaw and calls to the life-force again. It's easier to channel the surge this time. She feels giddy with the sheer power flowing through her. It feels right somehow, like rediscovering an old memory once buried.
Raw life sweeps through her in a thousand clamoring voices, whispers of lives long since ceased. Morgana relaxes as she hears Nimue's comforting voice in the maelstrom of thoughts swelling in a fiery crescendo.
"One of us", they hum, drowning her in their own dusky death-tales, "One of us, and one with all. You are nothing and everything." The voices sing and she is slipping too, joining them as they envelop her whole. They revel in their power.
"We are life itself," they whisper as they fill the body. The boy's life is a paltry exchange for their own rebirth. Let him live a few decades more; it means little to the millennia they had, are having, will have.
The boy opens his eyes, and the girl and the man—boy still in their eyes, but older than the others in the room—make gestures of excitement.
So strange, these mortals, finding such joy in such a brief reprieve when they all will be dead within a half-century, a mere blink of an eye.
Just a few minutes—seconds—more. They cast their mind around, impatient—
"Morgana!"
They flinch at the yellow-haired girl's sharp cry.
"Morgana, come back!"
They snap at the annoyance. "We do not recognize the name."
The yellow-haired girl glows with power, a torch to their own inferno.
"Such paltry obstacles will not distract us," they laugh.
"What's wrong with her?"
A new voice. The boy shines burning bright, brilliant even as he falters in the blinding light of their own. They tire of this—
Firm hands grip their shoulders hard enough to bruise. Warmth courses through the contact, and they feel their voices scattering. Their body's small frame shakes with the hands, and with it, the shadows of the original consciousness falter.
Morgana takes a shuddering breath, clutching at Arthur's grip on her. She's trembling from within even as Arthur shakes her.
"Arthur," she gasps. "Stop."
His hands slip off her shoulders down to her wrists. She barely feels them.
"You forfeit the boy, and you will regret this." the voices peter out, disappointed. "We have time—we will wait."
Morgana flexes her still-shaking hands, taking them back from Arthur. He looks as if he wishes to say something, but remains silent.
She looks around the room. Keredic is upright, somehow having raised himself to a sitting position without her realizing. His bandages are off, revealing smooth skin. No hint of the wound remains. Morgana lets out a shaky breath.
Keredic looks past Rodor and Mithian, both in tears, and smiles at Morgana. "You did it. I knew you could."
Rodor speaks gruffly before she can answer. "She only made up for her own mistake."
"You won't attack Cornwall?" Morgause inquires sharply. "You're satisfied?"
Keredic looks between the two before fixing his gaze on his father.
"You blamed Morgana for what happened?" he asks, incredulous.
Rodor regains some of his anger. "Of course I did! If it wasn't for the wench, you wouldn't have been forced into the most dangerous part of the battle. She should feel relieved that you turned out alright, or she wouldn't have a nation to go back to."
"But- Father, listen to me. She did not want me to go with her. The only one to blame for what happened is me and my own pride."
"Keredic, she made you—"
"I wanted to prove to you that I was a man grown!" he shouts. "You were always prouder of Mithian because she could fight." He exhales tiredly. "I wanted to show you that you could be proud of me." He looks drawn. Mithian's face is both mortified and concerned.
Rodor looks as if he is struggling to find the words to retort, and Morgana wishes she was elsewhere. Everyone is looking away from each other.
"That's why—that's why I want you to not be angry at anyone else," Keredic's voice is quiet, raspy. "Even after I'm gone."
Mithian pales. "What do you mean, gone? Morgana cured you. You're fine. You won't even have a scar, Keredic."
"I know my body," Keredic smiles sadly. "This won't last." He glances around at the horrified faces and hurriedly goes on. "It was my own damn fault. Don't blame anyone else. Please, Father, at least give me this peace of mind." Keredic looks pleadingly at his father.
Rodor is speechless. A resigned silence fills the room, and Morgana hangs her head.
Keredic breaks the silence, smiling sadly. "Morgana, come here."
Morgana hesitates, then steps closer to the bedside. He tugs her gently to sit her down on the edge of the bed. She sinks down.
"Thank you for giving me the chance to say goodbye." He leans forward and gently kisses her forehead. Tears leap unbidden to her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"An hour more of life is already a miracle for me. Most people would kill for the chance," he jokes half-heartedly. He lets her go and turns to everyone else.
"I don't have much time," he says quietly. "I would like to say goodbye to my family in private."
Merlin, who has been silent the entire time, steps forward. "Give me two minutes, and I can get you a connection to your mother." He looks to Rodor. "I need your wedding ring."
The king hands it over mutely. Keredic looks gratefully at the sorcerer as he chants out the spells.
"Thanks. For everything."
Merlin nods gravely, continuing the spell until a mirage forms in thin air. A stately woman with wispy brown-gray hair looks through into the room, bewildered. It only takes her a look to realize the situation, it seems, because her expression crumbles from surprise to despair within seconds.
Keredic smiles tiredly at the woman. "Mother. I'm sorry."
Morgause looks around at the rest of them and quirks her head in the direction of the door. Morgana follows her out quietly, sighing in relief as Arthur supports her. Her legs feel like water, and her mind is so numb she can hardly think.
They all sit down in the bare floor of the corridor, disregarding their status and clothes as they lean against the wall.
Morgause smiles at Morgana. "You did well."
She smiles shakily back at her sister, but it drops off as she speaks. "I don't know if he'll live."
"But Cornwall is safe. And you are safe." Morgause looks regretful. "His fate cannot be helped."
"Then why did you make her do whatever it is she did?" Arthur cuts in, voice sharp with accusation. "Morgana looks like death itself."
Morgause looks disinterestedly at Arthur. "It was necessary to stop Rodor from his mad quest for vengeance."
"Morgana was in danger."
"And now she is not," Morgause replies. Morgana just wants them to stop talking and let her rest in silence. Neither of them notice her sigh.
Merlin joins in. It seems that she will not be left alone for a while. "Morgana, your eyes were glowing silver," he says to her, shuddering. "What on earth were you doing?"
She tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. "I don't know."
"You weren't using a spell," he persists. "You just- you said heal and then there was magic—"
"I don't know." Her voice is sharper than she intended. "I'm tired."
Merlin opens his mouth to speak again, but Arthur cuts in before he can ask anything else.
"Enough, Merlin."
Merlin grumbles. "Yes, Sire."
Morgana is grateful, but she is too weary to say anything. She closes her eyes.
"None of you is to ever speak of this again," Morgause's voice is quiet. "If you care even a whit for my sister, you'll forget what happened."
Morgana opens her eyes again at Arthur's voice.
"We all care," he says slowly. "But we would like to know what happened. Not now, but we need to know eventually."
Morgause's gaze sweeps past the two men to meet Morgana's eyes. "That is her choice to make."
Merlin makes a frustrated noise. "We have to know that it's not going to endanger Albion."
Again with this persistence. Morgana shakes her head slightly and is about to speak when she hears a panicked cry from inside the room. She knows instinctively that the worst has happened.
"No." she stumbles to her feet. "No, no, no." She shakes off Arthur's supporting arm and rushes through the door. The others follow immediately.
Rodor and his wife are screaming Keredic's name. The prince is slumped over, unfeeling and deathly pale. His eyes are mercifully closed. Mithian is trying to rouse him, silent tears coursing down her ashen cheeks. She looks up.
"Please, I beg you. My brother…"
Morgana feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of her. She swallows shallow, desperate breaths as she looks at the scene. This shouldn't be happening. Keredic should be alright; she had cured him. She had harnessed the power of the High Priestesses. Why was he not awake? Maybe it was a prank; maybe he needed sleep. He had to be alright. She did not have the strength to try—
"Princess Morgana, please." Rodor's deep voice breaks through her panic. "Save my son."
Never before has she wanted so much to run from something. Morgana opens her mouth to protest, to say she could not help him, but the words do not come out. Keredic had been kind when others had turned from her. Keredic had given her precious minutes of levity in this joyless war. He had forgiven her for his own death, knowing as she did in the darkest recesses of her mind that she really was to blame. He had saved Cornwall from his father's wrath.
Didn't she owe him at least this much?
Morgana shudders, closing her eyes. She's tired and muddled and so, so scared that the power will swallow her up again. As it has almost done only an hour past, as it had once very nearly taken her whole.
But Keredic deserved this much from her.
She braces herself and reaches again for that silvery pool of magic, frowning as it proves elusive. It is almost as if the magic is dancing away from her reach, unwilling to let her use it. She grits her teeth and calls to it more insistently. The magic holds back, reluctant, fluidly coiling in her mind—then rushes through her in a deluge of power, almost choking her with the sudden flow. Her hands suddenly feel as heavy as entire mountains, and she barely manages to place them on Keredic's shoulders.
"H-heal," she stammers. "Heal. Heal." Her voice grows stronger with each word.
The magic pulses from her core through her arms to Keredic. He starts into consciousness, and this time Morgana can feel him waken. She barely hears Mithian's cry of surprise mingled with joy as Keredic opens his eyes.
"Morgana, no." Keredic's voice is whisper-thin. "I already belong on the other side. Let me go—I won't have you dragged in with me."
Morgana shakes her head, her eyes snapping open. "I owe you this at least. Heal," she bites out. The magic cascades through her hands, but it feels like Keredic's being is losing life-force faster than she can give. Keredic lets out a feathery sigh, bidding his family farewell as his health visibly fades. In her mind, too, the light within Keredic flickers and dims. She needs to do something more.
Morgana's chest plummets at the realization that the stream of magic is thinning out. The life-magic is withdrawing from her command. She would run out of magic soon; she would have to stop in failure. Keredic's eyes flutter shut.
"No," Morgana breathes, and takes the plunge. Recklessly she calls upon all the power remaining in her, forcing vitality out to fill Keredic. Her vision blurs. Morgana pales as she grows short of breath—perhaps she has overreached. But this magic has to be enough to save him.
It's not enough. A quiet last breath escapes Keredic, and he breathes no more.
Morgana shakes her head again. She cannot have failed. She struggles for her own fading power as her legs give out.
"That's enough, Morgana, stop!" Arthur's voice rings out in the distance, desperate. As desperate as she is.
"Heal," she almost screams, panic-stricken. "Heal, heal, heal!" A fit of coughs, thick and clotted with something more, wrack her frame before she can say it again. Morgana wipes her mouth with one hand, not bothering to glance at the blood that she knows is smeared across—her blood. She's gone through too much backlash with this kind of magic to be at all surprised.
Unseen hands try to pry her away from the body, but she shakes them off somehow. Because Morgana knows that just a little more power and she can still save him, even if the power of the High Priestesses has turned away from her. She could save him as she had not been able to save her mother. She just needs to give a little more—it would be enough—
The world tilts sideways and the floor comes up to meet her. With darkness comes blessed, unknowing relief.
"We've been waiting."
Arthur is only able to shake off the unsettling helplessness he feels when Morgana's eyes flare in that silvery glow and suddenly slide shut. He barely manages to catch her before she crumples to the cold flagstones, kneeling to gently lay her down. She feels like ice in his arms. Her hair pools midnight black on the worn gray of the stones, her complexion looking even more bloodless than even Keredic's deathly paleness. He shakes her; her head lolls against his arm.
"Morgana!" Morgause rushes to them, kneeling at their side. Her voice shakes with panic Arthur has never before heard from the regal woman. "Please, Sister, wake up. Wake up!"
Mithian is ashen with horror, torn between mourning her now dead brother and seeing to Morgana. Her father seems insensible to everything going on, transfixed by the death of his firstborn son. Morgause's gaze snaps up to glare at Rodor with unadulterated loathing.
"Are you happy now?" she demands. "My sister dead for your son's idiotic choices?"
Rodor seems not to hear her strident accusations, rocking as he beholds Keredic's body.
"Tell me!" Morgause screams, her dark eyes blazing. "Was your paltry hour worth my sister's life?"
Arthur knows he should restrain Morgause from lashing out when Rodor is so clearly grieving, but in his own rage he cannot find it in himself to do so. How dare they bid Morgana to give up her own life for that of Keredic's? How dare they force her with threats of invasion to use magic known to be unpredictable, known to be deadly? He can barely suppress his own anger.
"I'm sorry," Mithian cries out. Her wan face is splotchy with tears. "I didn't know, didn't think—Keredic—"
"You asked her to bring back the dead!" Morgause shrieks at the princess. A pitcher of water on a side table shatters, followed by all the glass in the room. Light streams through the window as fragments cascade from the windowpane. Arthur hears rather than sees Merlin step forward.
"She's not doing it on purpose," the warlock says, half to himself and half to Arthur. Merlin raises his voice. "Queen Morgause, calm yourself. You're endangering everyone in this room."
Morgause transfers her furious gaze to Merlin. "You felt what Morgana did," she bites out. "She poured her own life-force into the void. And for what? These-these leeches used my sister—"
"She's not dead," Merlin contends, "and she needs you to keep your head. Look at yourself."
Arthur lays trembling fingers over the column of Morgana's neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. He holds his breath as his heart plunges, willing her to show a sign—any sign—of life. One, two, three-and air rushes out of him in a despairing exhale.
"Morgana," he whispers brokenly. "No."
Even Rodor seems to have broken from his stupor. Clutching his son's body, the king looks at Morgana's crumpled form as if seeing it for the first time.
"I didn't want this," Rodor stutters. "I never meant for the girl—"
"You drove her to it." Morgause's voice slices sharp, frigid as midwinter.
"No," the king whispers, looking twenty years older. "Keredic was enough. Not her. I-I am sorry."
Arthur finally snaps. "Sorry won't bring Morgana back," he roars. "She's- she's…" His voice breaks. "I can't let her go like this," he breathes.
Morgause pushes him away, taking Morgana's still form into her lap. He lets her, numb with the terrifying and very real possibility that she was gone, wasn't ever going to tease or laugh or look at him with that look in her eyes again. That he would have to say goodbye to her for the last time, laid to rest in the cold, unforgiving earth. He cannot bear to look at her.
Mithian is crying in earnest now. "I'm so sorry. You have to understand, we never wished for her to…" The princess trails off, wracked with sobs.
Morgause chokes back a sound, and Arthur braces himself for the confirmation that would shatter him.
Then:
"You are truly incompetent," Morgause lets out a breathy chuckle. "You were nowhere near the artery."
Arthur can hardly believe his ears. "You mean she's…"
"There is a pulse," Morgause takes a shuddering breath. "She breathes still."
She breathes still. The words slowly thaw the numbness in his mind. Morgana lives.
Arthur closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting out the breath that had been caught in his ribcage. Morgana lives. He can't tell if he's laughing or crying.
Merlin nudges him, snapping him; out of his euphoria. Keredic is still dead. Arthur struggles to compose himself in the face of Rodor and Mithian's grief.
Mithian wipes at her tears. "I'm—I'm so glad. Thank heavens," she says, and Arthur can hear the sincerity in her voice.
Morgause takes a deep breath. "We need to move her," she says briskly, no trace of her previous anguish audible. She looks at Rodor again, her mouth tightening.
"I am sorry for your loss, King Rodor," Morgause begins slowly, deliberately. "I am sure you and your daughter would appreciate privacy."
Rodor lets out a shuddering sigh. "Yes," he groans. He pauses for a long while. "Tell the princess," he begins haltingly. "Tell her that I am grateful. Tell her that I will remember her kindness in granting my family a farewell."
Morgause's face turns icy. Arthur hastens to reply in her stead, afraid that she will lash out once more. "We will do that. Please tell us if there is anything you require."
Rodor nods, and Mithian follows suit with a wobbly curtsey. Morgause does not bother to acknowledge them, slipping her arms under her sister's back and knees before lifting her bodily. Arthur tries to persuade Morgause to let him do it, and is summarily ignored by her. Quietly protesting, he opts to follow close behind instead. Merlin turns and gives a quick bow to Rodor and Mithian before closing the door after them.
Arthur can hear Mithian's soft sobs through the walls as he rushes after Morgause.
"She's not waking up."
Arthur frowns at Merlin's statement, but does not answer as the warlock treads softly into Morgana's room. The stacks of parchment and reports Arthur has been attending to in the meantime to keep himself busy flutter as the door shuts.
"It's been two days," Merlin tries again. "We've all been taking turns watching her, and she's not moved once in that time."
Arthur makes no reply. He watches the mercifully steady rise and fall of Morgana's chest as she breathes, his gaze lingering on the golden chain around her neck glinting against the white sheets. The small ruby pendant rests in the hollow of her collarbone.
"The war hasn't ended yet, you know. You don't have the time to spare. Let the healers take care of her."
"She'll wake up," Arthur finally speaks. "I want to see her waking up."
Merlin sighs, exasperated. "The scouts have finished taking account of the aftermath. The Council wants to meet to decide what to do now."
"I know."
"Keredic's funeral is tomorrow."
"I know."
Merlin raises an eyebrow. "I'm getting married next week to a Saxon."
Arthur does not look up. "I know."
"Arthur, could you at least pretend you're listening? As fascinating as Morgana's breathing is, I'd appreciate you saying more than ten words to me at one time."
Arthur grunts, then freezes. He could have sworn Morgana had twitched.
"Say that again," he orders. Merlin looks askance at him.
"…You could pretend you're listening?"
Arthur looks intently at Morgana's still form. "Before that," he calls impatiently.
"I'm getting married to a Saxon next week?" Merlin stutters. "You do realize that was a joke, right?"
Her eyelids are quivering. Arthur stands, then scoots closer.
"Again," he repeats.
Merlin frowns, but complies. "I'm getting married to a Saxon."
And this time, Arthur is sure he's not imagined Morgana stirring. Merlin has seen it too, it seems, because he hurries closer.
"Morgana," Arthur shakes her gently. "Wake up, Morgana."
He watches her face intently as her brows knit slightly and she murmurs a few unintelligible words at him. His hand wanders to her cheek and strokes it. From the corner of his eye, he can see Merlin flush and look away. It's a strangely intimate moment; Morgana at her most vulnerable has none of that iron-rigid reserve that she has maintained since the war began. Arthur is struck once again by how small she looks, enveloped by the stark whiteness of the bedsheets.
Morgana stirs again, the dark nightfall of her hair pooling on her pillow. Arthur lifts his hand from her cheek to shake her.
"Come on, Morgana. Can't stay in bed all day." He ignores Merlin's mutters of "Already did that for two and a half days."
A deeper frown creases Morgana's brows, and he fights the urge to smooth them. She'd wake up soon. He has waited this long; he can wait a few minutes more.
There are so many things he wants to ask her as soon as it's clear that she really is alright. What was that magic? It had looked nothing like any magic he has ever seen, limited though his experience is. Her eyes had glowed moonlight silver and not that flashing gold he was now used to, and he swears there had been a hundred terrible voices behind Morgana's own when she had spoken in that terrifying moment where Morgana hadn't been Morgana anymore but something more. Even Merlin had seemed scared—Merlin, who is perhaps his only protection and guide against magic. What sort of forbidden magic had Morgana tried to use?
And how could Morgana have risked her life like this? Even with Rodor threatening in his mad grief to declare a vendetta on Cornwall, she should not have tried such risky magic. For her, he would have stopped Rodor at any cost; she should have known that and trusted him. Instead she had to go and delve into some dangerous arcane magic. Morgana herself had been the one to tell him about the danger of losing one's life through magic that is too much for one's power. Did she have so little regard for her own life and how he would—who she would leave behind? Arthur dares not think about how close her brush with death might have been.
"Arthur."
His half-murmured name breaks his little reverie. His eyes snap to Morgana's face again.
Her eyelids flutter twice, then slowly open. Her emerald green eyes are unfocused, but she is unmistakably conscious.
"Arthur?"
He fumbles for her hand. "I'm here."
She slowly focuses on his face, her brows still knit with worry. "I dreamt… I saw—"
"It's only a dream," he whispers reassuringly, still unable to tear his eyes away. He doesn't know what she has seen, and there's a voice in the back of his head warning that she has the Sight, that whatever she dreamt could very well be real, but now is not the time.
Morgana lets out a breath that sounds more like a sob than anything. Blinking rapidly, she slowly raises herself up to a sitting position and wraps her arms around herself.
"Are you cold?" Arthur asks hurriedly. "We could get you more blankets—" Morgana shakes her head slowly, as if still in a dream. She looks gaunt, her normal creamy complexion almost translucent with a sickly pallor.
"I could feel them this time," she whispers, apropos of nothing. "There were more of them than I'd ever seen before, but I felt them too."
A chill runs down Arthur's back, and he clutches her hand tighter. "Feel who?"
"Them," Morgana chokes out. "I don't know what to do."
Merlin speaks up for the first time since Morgana woke up. "You're back, Morgana, and that's what matters," he says confidently, soothingly. "Sometimes when people undergo traumatic experiences, their imagination makes up…" the warlock trails off into horrified silence.
"What's wrong? Is she…" Arthur follows Merlin's gaze to the exposed skin of Morgana's forearms from where the sleeves of her nightgown ends. He likewise is lost for words.
Dark bruises bloom on her skin, which already looks sallow from her ordeal. They appear faster than bruises should ever do, expanding down her arms to discolor her skin under Arthur's shocked gaze. Soon the entirety of Morgana's exposed skin is a motley of deep bruises. They don't stop at her arms, traveling up her shoulders and neck.
"Make it stop," Arthur demands Merlin, his voice shaking. The warlock looks helplessly at him.
"I don't know how."
Morgana does not seem to have noticed the sudden bruising of her entire body. She sets her bleary gaze on Arthur, trembling slightly.
"Morgana, what's going on?" Arthur asks her quietly.
She does not answer. Arthur hesitates, unwilling to touch her when she looks to be so bruised. But she follows the direction of his gaze.
Morgana's eyes flick down, then widen. She glances up suddenly at Arthur, her eyes now completely focused as if she has somehow woken up from a trance. She swiftly slips her arms under the covers, her wince forced into a neutral expression almost too quickly for Arthur to notice.
"You're right. I would like a blanket," she says to them, no traces of her confused dreamlike state remaining. It sounds exactly like the Morgana Arthur has gotten to know from the war, cool and composed and reserved. For some reason, that worries Arthur more. Nevertheless, he nudges Merlin, who surprisingly doesn't grumble as he brings out an extra coverlet from the cabinet across the room.
Morgana wraps the blanket around herself quickly, fumbling to hide her bruised skin with it. Arthur watches worriedly as her gaze flicks from Merlin to himself.
"How long have I been out?" she asks them. "What's happened?"
Arthur cannot tell if they are genuine questions or an attempt to distract them. "Two days," he tells her without looking away. "Nothing much."
A furrow appears between Morgana's brows. "There's a war going on," she retorts half-heartedly. "So much must have happened in two days."
"Celebrations," Arthur offers lamely. "We've not convened to decide what we're to do now."
Morgana purses her lips. "When are we to do so?"
Merlin answers for him. "We were waiting for you to wake up. Arthur here knew you would have hated to miss it."
"And… and Keredic?" Morgana's voice is weaker. "Is he all right?"
Merlin shuts his mouth, glancing worriedly at Arthur. Arthur speaks unwillingly.
"Prince Keredic died honorably serving his duty in the Battle of Peredor."
Morgana bites her lips, and Arthur wishes that he could do something to ease the worry visible in every line of her small frame.
"And Rodor?" she asks in an even smaller voice.
"Wanted to thank you for giving him the chance to say goodbye," he tells her quickly. "Mithian's come by often as well, waiting for you to wake up."
He watches Morgana let out a quiet sigh and wrap the blanket closer to herself, closing her eyes. There is a brief silence.
"Do you want us to leave?" Arthur asks carefully, searching her face. Morgana's eyes snap open.
"No!" The forcefulness of her reply surprises him. Morgana looks at him and backtracks. "I… I only… I appreciate your company," she says quietly. "I don't want to be left alone right now."
Arthur softens. He is just about to sit back down when Merlin speaks out.
"Arthur really should leave, my lady," he says in an apologetic tone. "He's been neglecting his work to wait for you to wake up." Arthur glowers at the warlock.
Morgana lowers her gaze to the covers, biting her lips. Arthur is about to protest, to tell her that it would be his pleasure to stay with her, when she opens her mouth to speak.
"You should go," she tells him, eyes still on the covers. "I apologize for keeping you."
"I can stay," he says to her, still glaring at Merlin. "You need not worry."
"No, I see now," she shakes her head. "You have your duties."
"My duty is to you," he tells her stubbornly. And really, it is. He wouldn't be able to function if she was left alone in this state. Not when she specifically asked for his company, which rarely happens.
She looks up at him. "Your first duty is to Albion." Her voice is soft. "Or don't you remember?"
And he remembers. He remembers that night after the first council meeting, and he cannot find the words to reply.
Morgana's mouth firms. She meets his eyes head on.
"You should go."
Arthur remains silent. Morgana turns her impassive gaze to Merlin.
"You should take him."
Merlin glances warily at Arthur, as if he is a storm gathering. He waits to see what the warlock will do, but there is a knock at the door before Merlin says anything.
"Am I intruding?"
Mithian's head pokes timidly in through the half-opened door. Merlin hesitates to assure her that no, she is in fact very welcome, and he is sure Morgana doesn't mind…
A small smile appears on Morgana's face, so unforced that Arthur is almost certain of its genuinity. It startles him, as does her welcome of the other princess.
Mithian settles herself down in the chair that Arthur had vacated with Morgana's awakening. Morgana looks at the men.
"Thank you for your company. I look forward to seeing you in the council."
It is a clear dismissal, in tone if not in words. Arthur nods stiffly and walks out, Merlin stumbling after him. The unwieldy piles of documents rise from the floor and float slowly out, following.
The door closes. He can barely hear the murmurs of conversation as he strides down the hall.
Merlin and Morgana are right: He has neglected his duty. It is time he remedied that.
The war is not yet over.
A/N: A belated happy birthday update for StarSeeker24. Thank you to all reviewers and readers for your support!