"You have magic!" Morgana's eyes flash fire from where she stands opposite the bedroom door, the damning magic book clutched in her hand. "You have magic and you didn't tell me." Okay, so it didn't really impact upon her plan. But still, the sudden pain of finding the book demanded some punishment of the boy who'd hidden it from her.
Merlin pulls the door shut hurriedly and crosses his arms across his chest. "Ssh, Gaius is around. I do, I have magic, but -"
Morgana flings the book onto the bed. "Oh, and you just thought, what, I wouldn't care? It wouldn't matter to me?"
Merlin shrugs, dropping his arms and taking a step towards her. "There just wasn't ever a right time."
Morgana steps backwards, away from him, shaking her head slowly. "I thought I was all alone. I thought I was...I thought that there wasn't anyone who was like me and how could you leave me there? How could you leave me there?"
Merlin reaches for her, heart aching for the betrayal on her face. "I'm sorry."
She pulls away. "Don't you touch me. I thought I was a monster. And all this time, you had magic too and you never told me. So don't. You. Touch. Me."
Merlin lifts his arms in surrender, backs away. The room swells with silence, shutters pulled close around their voices. Gagging them with the enormity of the broken secret. This time, the code in her eyes is easy to break: how could you? Is what it means. How could you?
"I'm sorry," he says again.
Morgana sits heavily on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched tensely. She brings her hand to her face, scraping her hair back in a gesture of resignation.
"Right," she says.
Merlin steps cautiously towards the window. When she doesn't pull backwards, he walks past her and lifts the heavy piece of parchment, covered in a thick black crawl, which was Morgana's work that day.
"This is the letter for Arthur?" he asks timidly.
She shakes her head, indicating that she's not ready to drop the subject of magic. He's not nearly off the hook. Lifting her chin in challenge, she demands, "Forget Arthur. Show me."
Merlin can't pretend he doesn't know what she's talking about. He matches her glance for a moment, then sighs. Lifting his hands, he murmurs "Apyffan fleoge." When he opens his clasped fingers, three tiny, bright blue butterflies flutter around. They circle once around Morgana's dark head, then leave as quietly as they appeared, out the stone flanked window.
"Oh," breathes Morgana in wonder, all anger momentarily forgotten in her childish amazement at the purity and control of the magic. She wants that. She wants it so much. She would give up the kingdom to be that good, she would. Morgana doesn't want to kill things anymore. She wants to create them.
Maybe that's the moment when she should have realised that she was falling in love. That her plan risked coming to pieces because she was trying to feel whole.
"Teach me," she whispers, looking up at Merlin with bright eyes full of hunger.
He steps towards her, gently closing his palms around the scarred backs of her hands. He shuts them, kneeling in front of her in the fast-darkening room. "Just say what I said," he tells her.
"Apyffan fleoge," says Morgana. As their hands fall apart, a single white moth flies out from between them, furry and perfect. With a faint buzz of its wings, it settles on her shoulder, then disappears into the night. She looks at him, both their eyes shining with the clean goodness of the magic that she has created. Morgana never thought she could make something that pure; Merlin never hoped to see her do it. Their hands are still and entwined.
That's when she kisses him.