Morgause was eager to see what her work had wrought. She'd been doing her best to distract herself, giving the Prince some time to return home, but there was only so much petal grinding and frog de-legging one could do before the tediousness became too much to bear.
As dawn approached, she reasoned that Arthur must be returning to Camelot soon, and so she made her final preparations. Years ago, when she was still in the midst of planning her great stand, she'd met a sorceress that had called the Isle of the Blessed home. Realizing their desires aligned, the two sorceresses had shared knowledge, and the woman Nimueh had explained that under the Isle lay a cave, separate from that which the prince and the traitor had entered. In the cave, which dead-ended at a surreal depth beneath the Isle's ruins, was a stone basin capable of very old magic, and with the proper ingredients and words, a sorceress or sorcerer could spy in on any present moment she or he desired.
Standing beside the basin, whose liquid contents were clear as water from a brook but bubbled as though boiling, Morgause pulled a small cloth from her pocket. Then, changing her mind, she replaced it, instead reaching for a small jar that sat on a stout shelf along the cave wall. Carefully, she unstopped the jar, tipped it, and allowed a small, black hair to fall into her palm.
She dropped this strand of hair into the clear basin. It sizzled as the liquid ceased its bubbling and an image rippled out from the middle. Morgause watched, expressionless, as she saw Merlin, alone, stumbling over roots in the woods. The boy looked exhausted and not a little annoyed, and she pushed away the small knot of guilt in the pit of her stomach. It's his fault that he's alone after all, Morgause reminded herself. He'd been too patient, when he should have acted. Even Arthur had been able to see that something had to be done, that choices had to be made. He's a coward, Morgause thought bitterly. Before she allowed herself to think about the boy anymore, she waved away the image.
Now, she again pulled the folded cloth from the pockets of her trousers and undid it gently. With a delicate finger, she lifted a short, blond hair and dropped it in. Like before, the hair fizzled and an image appeared. Arthur, in the stables of Camelot, slid from his horse, passing the reins to the stable-boy.
"Feed him well," the prince said, patting the horse's nose. "He must be exhausted."
"Yes, Sire," the stable boy said.
Morgause watched, breath baited, wondering what the prince of Camelot had in mind. He seemed remarkably calm, she thought admiringly. She particularly liked the way his hand rested lazily on his sword's hilt. He moved through the castle's halls with ease, a level of comfort with his surroundings that Morgause thought she'd never had. Only once did a Knight stop the prince.
"Evening, Sire," the Knight said, and Arthur stopped, smiling as though greeting an old friend.
"Morning, Leon. All quiet tonight?"
"Yes, Sire, very quiet," the Knight replied. "It would seem all went well for you."
"As well as could be expected," Arthur said, his smile fading.
"I do not want to pry, Sire. It's just…" The Knight's voice drifted uncertain.
"What is it, Sir Leon?" Arthur asked.
"Well, I just want you to know, and I think I speak for many of the Knights under your command, we'll follow you to the end," Leon said, his voice rushing under the sudden pressure he felt.
The prince was silent for a moment, then, chuckling, he slapped the Knight's shoulder.
"You speak as though the end is near," Arthur said. "But thank you, your loyalty and friendship… they're imperative to the kingdom's future."
"Yes, Sire," the Knight said, smiling, and with a parting wave, Arthur continued on down the hall.
Watching him, Morgause felt unsure, but she denied this, repeatedly telling herself the prince was merely thinking of the best way to get rid of the king without getting caught.
But if Morgause could have seen into the boy's head, she would be unable to deny her uneasiness. For Arthur was thinking of Merlin, a boy, smiling, who had used actions to show what Leon had just spoken. He'd run himself through before admitting this to anyone, but it was Merlin's smile and laugh that Arthur had missed the most over the past year and half. He'd never been able to forget the serving boy—then just a juvenile delinquent—as he kept making jokes and prodding at Arthur when they first met, even as Arthur was tossing him into Camelot's dungeons. It was utterly perplexing to the prince at the time. No one had ever treated him so informally, so equally, so normally, in his whole life. His father spoke down to him and the Knights and the servants spoke up, and with other king's sons it was a constant competition for who was better; with the king's daughters it was all about what he had to offer.
And then there was Merlin, whose only expectations for Arthur was for the prince to be the king he dreamed of being. Who didn't even expect him to get there as soon as possible. The young sorcerer had so much to lose while Arthur took his time growing up, and still the serving boy never pushed him any harder than someday.
You will be a great king…someday…it just takes something like courage.
Having reached his chamber's doors, Arthur paused, reaching for the handle.
"Arthur," a voice echoed from around the corner, and the prince turned. Uther stood, just inches from the wall. Morgause smiled wide. Soon.
"Father," the boy said, his voice devoid of any notable emotion. Uther approached him, smiling a bit uneasily. The expression seemed out of place on the King.
"I see you've returned safely."
Arthur didn't respond, just stared at his father. Morgause, far away, sighed impatiently. Come now, she thought, you hardly need to be calm anymore.
Uther cleared his throat. "Of course," he said, "You'll need to be punished accordingly—"
Morgause's chest tightened as she saw Arthur's eyes flare, ever so briefly, with anger. The same rage she'd seen in them earlier that night.
"Punished? For what, your Majesty? What have I done inappropriately now?"
"I clearly ordered you not to go see that woman."
"I had a promise to keep, Father. That means something, believe it or not." Oh, shut up! Morgause's mind was livid.
"How dare you—" Uther began, but Arthur ignored him, his chamber door squealing loudly as it opened.
"How dare I?" the prince asked softly, not looking at his father. The king didn't respond, seemingly lost for words at the weight his son's voice seemed to carry. Act! Do something!
Arthur just looked at his father. She wasn't sure what Uther saw in those eyes, but Morgause could only perceive sadness from the prince's gaze.
"How do you live with yourself?"
Arthur left that question in the air as he disappeared into his chambers, the door closing behind him with a whine.
Momentarily, Uther Pendragon did not move, his expression unreadable. For just a split second, too fast for anyone who wasn't looking for it to see, guilt flashed across his features. And then he turned with a flourish, as though he'd never done anything wrong in his life, and was gone from the basin's view.
Coward, Morgause could only think, though whether she meant the prince or his father, who could truly say.
Merlin stumbled down the inn steps groggily, scratching his bedhead and yawning.
"'Morning," the owner of the inn, a stout and frizzy-haired woman named Barbara Allen who had called Merlin handsome on more than one occasion, called out from behind the bar.
"Morning? More like evening," Lancelot said, a smile in his voice as he dropped a sack of flour on the counter. Something clattered to the floor and the curly brunet winced.
"Oi, pretty boy," Barbara Allen scolded, though she wasn't angry, "Watch where your muscles drop things."
"I'll have a talk with them," Lancelot replied, and Merlin smiled. The sorcerer made his way down the last few steps and took a seat beside where Lancelot stood. "I'll admit," Lancelot said to Merlin, "I didn't expect you back so soon." Merlin had been gone from the inn one week—one day to the Lake to beat Morgause, three nights there, and one day back, having arrived at the tavern around this evening's early afternoon.
"Where exactly did you think I would go?" Merlin asked.
"You boys want a drink?" Barbara Allen interrupted. "On yourselves, 'course."
"I'll take a mug of ale!" came the voice of Gwaine from just atop the staircase, a series of thuds following the request. Without missing a beat, the ruffian was up on his feet. "It's alright, I'm good, I'm fine," he coughed, his voice now beside the others' at the bottom of the stairs.
"Yeah you are," Barbara Allen confirmed. She leaned over the counter slightly. "What about you, in the corner? You want one?" She was addressing a large, muscular man that regularly sat in the far corner of the tavern. It was an offer of formality; the man hardly spoke, and never drank, but after hearing his story from Lancelot – the only one, in fact, that the man had been willing to talk to since he first appeared a few weeks ago – Barbara Allen had neither the heart or desire to turn the man away. Besides, she was weak for a good, unapologetic man with a strong pair of arms. And this man never wore sleeves.
Muscle-man shook his head, and Barbara Allen decided he deserved a nice bit of stew.
Gwaine, meanwhile, smiled and winked, leaning on the bar-top as Barbara Allen stood up and headed for the kitchen.
"So how about that ale—"
"So early," Merlin muttered.
"It's almost dinner time," Lancelot pointed out.
"It's breakfast time when you've slept all day," Merlin countered.
"And what goes better with breakfast than ale?" Gwaine hollered, slamming a hand on the table. The ruffian laughed.
With a sigh, Lancelot resumed the previous conversation. "So is all well in the kingdom?" he asked Merlin pointedly.
"I hope so," Merlin answered. "I think so. At least for now… But… well… I suppose 'you-know-who' isn't too pleased."
"If you two are going to talk about me in secret, at least do it in, you know, secret," Gwaine cut-in, with a swing of his mug.
"For the last time, you aren't 'the-one-who-must-not-be-named,'" Lancelot said.
"Yeah, your secret name is 'that drunkard we both know,'" Merlin added. Gwaine pondered that a moment, then shrugged.
"Fair enough, though I give your creativity only one point," he said with a smile and another gulp of ale. As he put his mug down and called for another (Barbara Allen yelling, "And how do you plan on paying for it?" from the back), Lancelot asked,
"So, Merlin, what did you do?"
"Why does everyone assume I did something?" Merlin responded, his voice a bit indignant.
"Apologies, what happened?"
Merlin looked sheepish. "I did something."
"Alright, Merlin! About time, too! Was it with that blond I've heard you two whisper about?" Gwaine hollered, clapping Merlin on the shoulder.
"Just shut it and drink your ale, will you?" Lancelot snapped.
"Do you see a mug in my hands?"
"If I put one there will you shut up?"
Gwaine smiled triumphantly. "Gladly!"
Lancelot sighed. "Barbara Allen, Gwaine's ales are on me."
Barbara Allen was chopping a cabbage when she heard Lancelot holler. "They're all so pretty," she said to herself, "but as useless as a cat on a boat and dumb as deer on a dinner table."
Her eyes burned, her fingers ached, her hair was disheveled and hanging in greasy strands. Her back had stiffened from her lack of movement. She grasped the edge of the basin as though the earth threatened to throw her from its surface. Nimueh had warned her, the power of this sight, the sight to watch other people's lives unfold, was consuming, obsessive. But Morgause felt if she looked away, she might finally feel something.
In the water the image of Merlin danced, smiling with a man she recognized (though what was his name?), mocking her. The same thoughts had been rolling through her mind for a long time now, she didn't know exactly how long, but they had taken place of everything else—her sleep, her hunger, her ambition, her ability to breathe.
Had she really been tricked? Had she been betrayed, by a coward nonetheless? She had thought she knew this boy, he was a fool; someone, though forced from every home he'd made, he was still kind. A memory flashed in her mind—
"Don't move." Merlin saying, voice muffled by his shirt, ripping it with his teeth.
"What are you—"
"Shh!" he is hissing, leaning in a bit. Knights darting around the trees and bushes of this forest just outside Camelot.
Morgause lifting her hand, starting a whisper. But without words, he is shaking his head, pushing her hand down.
Wind picking up, branches cracking and rocks falling in a direction away from them.
"That way!" a Knight is calling. "The witch went that way!" And they're leaving. Merlin ripping his shirt again, tying the torn strand around the wound in her calf. He's careful not irritate the broken arrow shaft still poking from her skin.
"What are you doing?" Morgause scolding, taken aback by this stranger. "Take it out!" She is reaching for it, but without words, he is again pushing her hand away.
"Leave it in now, it's too dirty here."
"You're not saying you're a physician, are you?" Morgause amusing the stranger, her level of sorcery making cleanliness moot.
Merlin looking at her, his lips are sadly smiling. "In another lifetime, I would be."
—Morgause screamed, the water in the basin bubbling higher in chorus with her voice, and she released its rim, falling to the ground. The cave fell eerily silent. Then, she began to laugh.
What was she so bothered about? She had been betrayed before, by people she liked better than Merlin. She had underestimated an enemy before, by those that posed more of a threat than Merlin. Was this any different? Was this any worse? What did it—
"I'm going to kill the king of Camelot," Morgause confessing. Merlin beginning to cough, choking gracelessly on the water he is drinking.
"You're going to what?"
"I want to be free, Merlin."
"So do I, but what your suggesting… you're talking about killing someone."
"He's just one man."
"He's the king. He's one man, and the Knights, and the court, and—" Merlin cutting his voice short, his eyes growing wide.
"And what?" Morgause prodding, voice demanding. Merlin shifting uncomfortably.
"Nothing," he is finally replying. "It's just his son, the prince—"
"Well, I'll just kill him, too," Morgause declaring.
"What? No! You can't—he's—he's different from his father."
"Do you know him?" she is questioning, her voice tight and looking at Merlin, who is shifting again under her gaze.
"Uh, well, no," the boy admitting, though Morgause can't tell if he's lying. "I know of him," Merlin finishing hurriedly. "He's different. Trust me."
—As suddenly as she had started laughing, Morgause stopped. The eerie cave surrounded her again.
Quietly, using the basin as leverage, Morgause stood up. She glanced at her reflection in the water, and, seeing nothing in her eyes, she looked away.
She forced herself to look back. After all, what was wrong with nothing? And softly, she smiled.
What to do now, she mused, tracing a finger lazily along the basin's surface.