"You believe her, don't you?"
"You know I do."
King Arthur stands at the window of his chamber, holding in his hands a letter from the girl he'd once called sister. His servant, Merlin, stands in front of him, hands behind back and eyes pleading quietly. Arthur sighs and runs a hand through his golden blond hair.
"Of course you do. Look, Merlin, just because she says she's sorry doesn't mean she actually is."
Merlin bites his lip, unsure what to say to convince Arthur that Morgana's genuine, without letting slip that she's been living in his bedroom for the past three days. "Why don't you just give her one more chance? Surely that can't hurt," he says, trying to sound matter of fact but unable to keep a faint begging note out of his voice.
"We've given Morgana plenty of chances!" Arthur begins to pace.
"One more, then."
Arthur stops and looks at Merlin, recognising that he's not going to give up. "Fine. Leave a note in the empty houses that saying I'll see her. She can have one last chance."
"Yes! Thank you, Arthur. You won't regret this," says Merlin.
"I hope your trust in her isn't misplaced," says Arthur seriously. "And Merlin - I want to see her alone."
Merlin is surprised, and even though he trusts Morgana, he's cautious. It's certainly not protocol for the king to see someone with nobody else there. "Why?" he asks.
Arthur shakes his head. "Morgana's a good actor. I don't want her to have an audience. Besides, if something were to happen I'm sure I could deal with her alone."
"Hm." Merlin pretends to look doubtful.
"I'd have to. I'd need to live so I could kill you afterwards, seeing as this whole thing was your idea."
"Thanks, Arthur."
"You're welcome."
Merlin and Morgana had decided that it was safer for her to stay in the tunnels for the time being than to risk being caught leaving them, and tonight Merlin doesn't go to her until well after dark, not wanting to do anything suspicious that might jeopardise tomorrow's audience. As he slips through the square he feels cautiously hopeful: perhaps by tomorrow, all the secrecy could be over. Merlin lets himself drop into a daydream in which Morgana is reinstated as a lady of Camelot. In which she and Merlin could, possibly, be together.
She is standing when he reaches her, nervously twisting her hands together. She gives him a half-hearted smile as he comes in. "What did Arthur say?" she asks quickly.
A grin spreads over Merlin's face. "He says you're to see him, tomorrow and alone. I'll take you to him mid-morning."
"You did it for me," Morgana says with an odd note in her voice.
"You wrote the letter," points out Merlin, taking her hand.
Morgana tries to smile, but she can't. She wants to kiss Merlin again, wants him to touch her again, undress her, stay here in this dirt strewn cave all night long, but she feels tainted and ill. He trusts her so completely, he loves her even, and tomorrow morning she's going to crush all of that trust into dust. Morgana feels sick. She doesn't want to kill the king anymore; she just wants to be with Merlin.
She looks up at him, trying to say something that makes sense, trying to make him understand that she's sorry. "Morgause did love me, you know," is what she says.
Merlin squeezes her hand, looking faintly surprised by the choice of topic. "Morgause used you," he rebuts.
"Isn't it the same thing?" she asks him. He gives her a look that makes her ache all over. A sorrowful look. A pained look. He kisses her lips, but she doesn't react. She pulls her hand out of his.
"Big day tomorrow. You should get some rest," she says.
"Okay." She tries not to see the brief look of hurt disappointment that flashes in his eyes. He tries not to let her.
After he's gone, Morgana stands still in the centre of the room. If she moves, she thinks she might fall over, fall down. If she so much as twitches a muscle she'll start aching, a bone deep fearsome ache that will never stop, of this she is momentarily convinced. She looks at her long sleeved shirt and breathes in Merlin's scent, like flame and soap and grass and mud all balled up close together, woven into the warp of the fabric. She wonders, briefly, what it would feel like to wrap the sleeves close around her neck and pull until she stops breathing, but she pushes the thought away. Sometimes, thinks Morgana, sometimes we don't get to choose what we do. Sometimes we have no choice.
For the first sincere time in her life, Morgana drops to her knees and prays in the dark to be forgiven.