Disclaimer: I am not affiliated in any way with the BBC and I do not own Merlin or any of its characters. I am using them for entertainment purposes under the fair use and/or transformative works clause.
Morgana wakes to cold air drifting down her neck, twisting its way beneath the heavy blankets. A faint whistling stirs her consciousness into a calm, soothing half-alertness, and with her eyes still shuttered she listens comfortably to the sound of wood falling to earth, the harsh flick of a flint against iron, followed by a gentle blowing and a click and crackle as the fire is caught.
Morgana opens her eyes reluctantly, groaning as she moves at her painful muscles, sore from her night on the ground. Although Morgana is not one to complain, and has certainly spent plenty of nights out of doors, she is still the King's ward, used to luxury and a warm, soft mattress.
Her eyes meet Merlin's above the campfire and he gives her a cheerful smile. Morgana notices, however, that he is still avoiding holding her green eyes in his.
Good morning, Morgana sends. She is still childishly thrilled by the visceral presence of the words, the way that they drop slowly through the thick air from her mind into his. Once again, the words magic magic magic whisper into her mind. They dance around her head and Morgana imagines them like tiny lanterns, flickering and reflected in Merlin's eyes. In her mind's eye, the golden lit words gallop and encircle the tall boy's head, although here they lose certainty and gain question marks. Magic? Magic? Magic?
"Good morning, my lady," Merlin replies formally, refusing to use mind speak. This sparks a wave of irritation in Morgana - he's the one who taught her to use it, after all, and now he won't.
He looks up, and his eyes feel painfully sharp as they seem to understand what she was just imagining. Oh, no, did I send the magic thought, Morgana wonders helplessly. Instead of commenting, Merlin merely fills a metal travelling mug with hot water flavoured with early blackberries and hands it towards her. Morgana sits up, still enveloped in blankets, and reaches out, grasping for it. Their fingers touch on the rim and Merlin lets go so abruptly that a little water slops over the edge, dampening the blankets.
"Sorry, my lady." He apologises hastily, busying himself once more at the edge of the fire. He flings a few unnecessary twigs into the leaping flames and watches the smoke rise. To avoid looking in her eyes?
"It's fine." Morgana sips at the hot drink, blackberries leaving a silage of purple at the edges of the mug. Her teeth clink on the rim. The heat burns and she winces, puts the cup down and looks around her. The glade is still only dappled with light, early morning frost scattered in fragments over the damp grass. A snoring heap enshrouded in blankets on the other side of the fire indicates that the Prince Arthur has yet to wake. Morgana shivers and wonders where Gwen slept last night. On the floor of Firren's makeshift hut, beside a dying woman? Morgana squares her shoulders and takes another sip of the drink, this time ignoring its searing brutality. She will rescue her friend before the full moon, mind talk or no mind talk.
Merlin is still hunched on the other side, gangly limbs hanging like an afterthought. Morgana's eyes drift upwards towards his delightfully ruffled hair, the dappled sunlight giving it depth. She pushes the blankets off her shoulders and stands, stretching. The tears of last night gone, Morgana is once more ready to engage in a (friendly) battle with the physician's assistant as to the extent of his magical powers.
"You know that it would be helpful if you would continue talking to me in mind speak," Morgana states matter of factly, her height giving her a position of power. She drops her empty cup to the grass and places her hands on her hips, kneading the aching bone with taut fingertips. She wonders if she is imagining her friend's eyes drift guiltily to the spot where her hands knead, clad even as she is in full travelling clothes and a heavy cloak. She smirks, faintly and feels a pang of guilt. She allows the ashamed feeling to intensify, refusing to suppress it. Gwen's beau, Gwen's beau, she reminds herself painfully.
Merlin clears his throat and lifts his gaze. "I just don't think it's a good idea, my lady," he says. His use of the formal title is grating and, Morgana is sure, completely intentional. "It could be dangerous for you."
"Why?" Morgana questions quickly. "Because mind speak is a magical ability?"
Merlin's eyes flicker to the sleeping prince. "Scared Arthur will find out about your powers?" Morgana demands, adrenaline once again pushing her into deeper waters.
"My lady-"
"For god's sake, Merlin, you've been at court a year now, use my name," Morgana snaps, eyes flashing fire. It irks her, his continued insistence of formality. She shakes her head and turns away from his helpless, unspeaking face, disappointed yet again. "I'll pack the saddle bags. You can wake Arthur," she says, her fight driven momentarily underground.
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It takes a long, frustrating morning of riding through increasingly rocky countryside before they reach the village of Pataglen. Although the sunlight clarifies as they begin their ride, clouds soon cover the sky, a heavy, oppressive grey uniformity which depresses their spirits. Arthur, grumpy and tired, is not cheered even by Merlin and eventually Morgana's most valiant efforts. When his horse stumbles and loses a shoe at a particularly rocky patch of hill, both of his companions wince in anticipation of a spectacularly broken temper. They are relieved, therefore, when Arthur's attention is caught instead by chimneys in the distance.
"That must be Firren's village," he says, gesturing to the rising cottages. He waves off Merlin's offer of his horse; "I'll walk. We'd better hurry," he growls anxiously, eyes scanning the open land in front of them as though expecting to spot two werewolves. "Well, come on then!"
The three stumble through the tall grass, horses hooves squelching in deep mud. Morgana allows her eyes to close for a moment, losing her worry in a pleasant daydream of being back at Camelot, Gwen unharmed. She would take the girl to her home and tell her to rest, have a kitchen boy take her some food and soup. And then...what then? And then she would be alone once more in her high tower room, pacing the flagstones.
Her eyes snap open and she hardens herself; no rest for the weary. No comfort for the wicked, and those with magic are wicked, in Camelot at least. Merlin's high, tense back dips and sways in time with the horse's movements, creased fabric moving fluidly, sea like.
For the wicked, there is nowhere to belong and nobody to belong with.
But for now, there is a makeshift shelter on the edge of the village and this will have to do, for temporary existential comfort.
The clopping of the horses' hooves becomes a muffled thumping as they trot from the hard-packed path to the soft, verdant grass. Morgana watches, unable to move her eyes away, as Merlin sleekly slips off the horse and gently guides it to the closest tree, murmuring softly and smoothing the spooked hair standing on the animal's back. Morgana's tongue moistens her lips as she can't stop herself from imagining his hands smoothing her hair; his voice murmuring softly in her ear. Would he be that gentle with me? she wonders wistfully. An idea strikes her and her gaping mouth twists mischeviously into a cheeky smirk. What was it he'd said? 'Just be careful how loud your thoughts are?'
As a thought is sent intrusively into Merlin's vacant mind, he falters with the horse's reins and it slips out of his fingers. The horse snorts and begins to move away, searching further afield for fresh grass. "Ah..no!" Merlin's high cheekbones flush a slightly dull pink and he reaches hastily for the reins. Before he can grasp them, Morgana slips sideways off her horse and reaches for the thin strips of cracked leather, hand brushing his as she passes them to him. She smiles innocently and he raises his eyebrows at her, unsure whether the thought had been intentionally or unintentionally sent. "Remember how we weren't going to use mind speak anymore?" he says in a low voice, cheeks cooling as she moves away from him.
"Mind speak? I didn't send anything to you, Merlin," Morgana smiles, green eyes wide and bold. She tips her head to the side. "Come on. Arthur's halfway to Firren's hut."
The lady Morgana is a dangerous woman, Merlin thinks as they jog across the field, the princess's hands twisted in the heavy green velvet of her cloak, in more ways than one.
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The hut is closer to the forest than it is to the village, a small tumbledown collection of sticks, dirt and mildew with barely enough roof to stop the rain drenching all inhabitants. No wonder Firren's mother is ill. Poor woman, Morgana thinks, looking with compassion at the indecent housing. Her sympathy wanes slightly as she ducks her head and follows a jittery Arthur, drawn sword and all, into the darkness. A bundled shape in a lavender maid's frock lies on the floor, body limp and chest jumping as though she's finding it hard to breath. Her kind dark eyes are shut tight and a yellow liquid seeps out the corners. Her hair surrounds her face, halo-like, but much dirtier.
"Guinevere, by god, what have they done to you?" Arthur breathes, sword dropping to his side as he stares down, transfixed, at the sick woman. Morgana pushes past him and kneels beside the girl. Merlin drops to his knees, reassuring hand briefly resting on Morgana's shoulder so that she shivers, and searches through the rough cloth knapsack for healing herbs.
Absorbed in Gwen, they all forget for a moment the other inhaibitants of the hovel. A harsh growl from something resembling a crumpled sack reminds them. "Put the sword away!" demands the elderly voice. "Put it away. Sword goes away!"
"I'm informed we're in the presence of werewolves," Arthur barks, eyes not wavering from Gwen's face, "So I'll be keeping my sword out." The word 'werewolves' seems to break the old woman and she crumbles deeper into the corner, cloth dragged up beside her empty pale eyes.
"My mother doesn't like swords," as before in the smithy, Firren appears suddenly out of the darkness, voice high and childish, yet steady. "We don't have any sharp things here."
Morgana looks up anxiously, searching out the boy's green eyes. "Firren? What's happened to Gwen?"
Before the boy can answer, his mother lets out a soft, muffled cry and lifts a shaking, wrinkled hand.
"No!" Morgana hears Merlin start behind her and turn, reaching a bent hand and opening his mouth.
"Hneapplan" sings the woman and as Morgana watches, horrified, Arthur's sword drops to the ground and he falls heavily after it, assuming the same silent, rag doll pose as Gwen.
"Arthur!" Merlin swears and lifts the prince's head, checking for bruises. Morgana's eyes meet the old woman's; the woman smiles slightly with satisfaction.
"Will not hurt them,' her voice cracks, "An old sleeping spell. Hurry. Afternoon now. Full moon tonight. Then your friends will die. Hurry. No swords in my home."
A chill seeps through Morgana and settles like iron in her spine. It is afternoon, judging by the light outside the door. With one man down, she and Merlin will have to move even faster if they have any hope of defeating the Wolf King. Morgana stands decisively, giving Gwen's face a final, gentle stroke. Wordlessly, she grasps Merlin's bony, fragile wrist and tugs him upwards and out of the hut. He follows reluctantly, eyes still turned to their friends, blinking in the sudden daylight.
Morgana circles like a compass needle, skirts spinning like circling crows, searching the sky for the tallest tower. A forbidding spire, double the height of the church and three times as forboding, looks promising. She lifts her skirts and heads impatiently through the tall grass, looking back at Merlin's shadowed face and nervous hands.
"Come on, Merlin. It's just you and me now," Morgana says with a wicked smile.