Just a short chapter today I'm afraid! Hope you enjoy it :)
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 makes her way determinately across the long expanse of scratchy grass, the damp edges of her skirt held high in her hands. Merlin stomps gently beside her, running a long, staff-like branch through the grass beside them, a small, anxious hum emitting from his lips. His soft, slightly reddened lips. Lips Morgana is trying very hard not look at. She feels her stomach turn over and pushes away a though of his mouth pressed close against hers, tasting of magic and calm and healing potions. Her heart is thumping to a rapid, wild-woman beat in her chest, from the exertion of their swift walk combined with the exhilarating presence of Merlin.
"…Morgana?" Merlin is saying. Damn. She's been so lost in her head that she's missed his words.
"What is it?" her tone must have been sharper than she'd intended, because the tall young man beside seems to shrink slightly, remembering his position in the castle hierarchy.
"Sorry, my lady, we're, uh, almost there."
"How do you know?" Morgana frowns. The light has certainly darkened significantly over the course of their walk, and the cold of late afternoon is beginning to settle in her bones. Her fingers move to her hips again and she thumbs the aching bone as she hopes anxiously that Gwen has a blanket at least to cover her. Arthur could fend for himself: it was his own fault he was unconscious.
Merlin clears his throat. "The tall, towering castle behind a large swampy moat immediately in front of us was a bit of a giveaway," he tells her, deadpan.
Morgana looks up, startled, as in surprise she realises he's right. The heavy stone of the castle is forbidding and casts an air of hopelessness over them both. Instinctively, the two draw closer together, each feeling a slight, magical warmth emanating from their companion – almost as though they are glowing under the shadow of the turrets. Morgana has the same odd sensation that she often has around Merlin, a shrinking of reality until it makes a small circle around just the two of them. Morgana hasn't given up on proving Merlin's magical powers – the universe itself is warping for them. He must have magic. There is no other explanation for why she feels so…drawn…towards the boy.
She shakes her head clear of the haze of attraction and curiosity that surrounds her and looks out over the swamp, as wide as Uther's great hall lengthways and so deep that the blackened water reflects her face as she peers over the edge. She shuffles her feet closer and gazes down, looking for some sort of ladder or boat, then screams as she feels herself tip slightly forwards over the edge.
"Morgana!" Merlin grabs for her in alarm, his surprisingly strong hand clamping around her wrist and tugging her backwards. Morgana takes a heavy step backwards, almost tripping into her friend, breath hitching in her throat as she regains her balance. The weight of his fingers is hot on her wrist. She can feel his body behind her, his breath moving her hair as they both recalibrate. Morgana turns hastily to thank him.
And stops.
In her fumbling fear Morgana has not realised how close they're standing. His mesmerising blue eyes penetrating hers, bodies flush and chests beating almost too fast. The rough red cloth of his tunic pressing against the soft green of her cloak. Her lips inches away from his. They count breaths. One. Two. Three. They don't remember what they're doing. Four. Five. barely remember where they are. Seven. Eight. Nine. Electrical currents humming between their closed hands.
"Um," Merlin says softly. He tilts his head. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
He lets her wrist go.
They don't look at one another as they shuffle apart, Morgana's hands briefly going to her hair and combing it out free from any tangles in a nervous, unnessecary gesture.
"About this moat," Merlin says softly, hoarsely, his blue eyes squinting out over the gloomy water.
"I have an idea," promises Morgana.
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"Remind me never to listen to your ideas again," Merlin shouts approximately fifteen minutes later, as the two of them cling to a rope twisted inexpertly out of Morgana's cloak and underdress hooked precariously to a jagged edge of stone on the castle wall. The mechanism will take them over the moat, although barely above the deep water, and ends somewhere with some hopeful footholds.
"It's getting late, what else were we supposed to do? You do know what happens when a full, blue moon rises, don't you?" Morgana yells back over the rushing wind. Her hands sting from rope burns and she can feel herself slipping. The murky water below does not increase her confidence, and neither does the long length they still have to travel before they reach the castle.
"I think Gaius' hour long lecture condensed into three minutes did the trick. Moon rises, wolves kill." Merlin shouts back, his words half-lost in the wind. It's also freezing, Morgana thinks to herself. She's shivering without her underclothes and cosy cloak, and it's not making the task of staying on the rope any easier.
"What are we going to do when we get to the castle? I'd really rather not be cursed into a werewolf like Firren!" Morgana yells. Conversation is a distraction at least. Her hands inch a little further along the twisted cloth.
Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by a tearing sound. They both scream as the rope buckles and sinks, levering them closer to the gaping mouth of the inky moat. One of Morgana's hands slips and she desperately tries to get a hold.
"Damn it!" she swears as her frozen fingers refuse to obey her.
"Are you okay?" Merlin's face is concerned even as his own hands slip. They scream again as their movements cause the rope to depress further.
"That's a ridiculous question!' Morgana forces through her chafed lips. "If only one of us had magic and could get us out of here!" She glares at him pointedly.
"Do you believe that what you can do isn't magic? Seeing visions?" Merlin calls curiously across the expanse of trembling cloth between them.
Morgana stops at the implication of his words and draws a ragged gasp. "So you do think I have magic? You know, you've always evaded saying that. But I was right, it is what you think!" Morgana triumphs as she watches him swear inwardly. She would have quite enjoyed this conversation if they'd been somewhere less dangerous than several meters above thick water waiting to drown them.
"Gaius didn't want me to tell you! He thought it would put you in danger!" Merlin defends himself.
"And you always do everything Gaius tells you," Morgana contends sarcastically. "Oh, for god's sakes, Merlin, just tell me that you have magic and use it to get us out of here quickly!"
Their fates hang, literally, in the balance as Merlin looks at her. The shadows of their faces make them look ancient and exhausted. The darkness is encroaching. And still he does not speak. "The magic is inside you," he says to her, so softly that she almost cannot hear, "Use it, Morgana."
Morgana fells anger rising in her, anger at the confession he so consistenly denies her, anger at her own continuous hopes despite constant disappointment, anger at her useless powers that never procure any useful benefit. Then she remembers Gwen, her dark face turned pale and sickly yellow, her chest pumping breathlessly. Morgana shuts her eyes. All the anger, all the fear, all the love, all the electricity between the two people hanging above the moat. She can feel it all, grasps it all in her head as though it is a runaway horse's halter. Morgana thinks she might be screaming from the sheer power caught and bundled into her own single mind. Her head starts to pound, the pressure of it volatile and explosive. She looks across at Merlin with green eyes filled with tears and the black edges of pain-driven unconsciousness. She can barely make out his awkward half nod, almost of respect.
Morgana lets a word that she doesn't know, doesn't remember, yet has always known, sing forth from her lips. "Fyr," the witch whispers. With a sudden, exhilarating whoosh of air flame crackles up on the surface of the water. Morgana looks on in delirious confusion as the ache in her head slows and steadies.
The flame beats higher, fighting down the water. As the two enchanters watch, spell bound, two dragons rise, one of flame, one of water. The water dragon crashes angrily into the flame but the fire's light shines steady through the translucent glaze of liquid. The black water dragon looks as though it is heated from inside. It begins to writhe, beating its tall, watery wings against its body. Morgana's flame stays steady and with a shriek of humiliation the water subsides, collapsing in on itself and drawing back and back into the crevices from which it had sprung.
Morgana's fiery conjurance is not finished. It dances on the dry grey stone, an unintelligible message in its amber eyes. Morgana doesn't know how to stop it. From behind her she hears Merlin's voice. "Protect us," he begs the magnificent creature. "Protect the children of fire." They are the right words.
In its final explosion of colour, the long slithered form spins and dips gloriously, lifting them both high into the air on its back in a swift, unexpected movement. Its pyre burns a singed hole through the centre of the castle's forbidding door and the dragon deposits them, safely, on a cold stone floor before disintegrating into ash.