And I feel like my castle's crumbling down
And I watch all my bridges burn to the ground
And you don't want to know me
I will just let you down
You don't wanna know me now.
#
Loneliness and fogged visions kept troubling her sleep, waking her in the middle of the night.
She would stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open in the darkness, hugging the pillow under her head and trying to discern the shapes in her dreams, put them back together like broken fragments of a mosaic.
There was a man she had never met, wrapped in an emerald cloak that hid most of his face. All around him there were trees, branches shaken by the wind, like he was walking through a forest. He said something to her, maybe even pleaded, but she could not remember his words to save her life.
Then the scenery changed, and there were other sounds – the clash of swords, people screaming in terror. Everything else was just a blur of burning red.
Flames were invading Camelot from every corner, bringing the whole citadel to its knees. They were in the houses, on the bridges, at the doors. Rising from the towers of the castle and blackening up the sky, until only pillars of smoke billowed from the ashes of a broken city.
Camelot would be lost – she knew that with a certainty that each night made her wake up covered in sweat, her whole body trembling.
#
Morgana could not recall a time when her nights had been completely still, ever since she was a child.
The difference now was, that her nightmares were following her during the day, creeping behind her like shadows. It was like they were becoming more powerful, taking more and more space in her brain until she was unable to focus on anything else.
Gwen was sweeter than usual, talking to her in a soothing voice and encouraging her to rest even at late morning or in the afternoon.
Once, after Gwen had walked out of her chambers, Morgana went directly to look at herself in the mirror. She almost didn't recognize her own reflection: the woman looking back at her was as pale as death, and deep, purple shadows circled her eyes, making her look ill. She couldn't help but think about Arthur. Of what he would think, if he saw her like that.
Their encounters had been few and quick, in that last month. She had rarely gone to see him while he was in bed, recovering from the fight with the Questing Beast – she'd been paralysed by the fear to watch him die, as it happened in her visions. And now that he was in full health again, she could not bear the thought of being near him while she felt so awful.
Sometimes a scene from the past came to haunt her, even worse than her dreams, making her blush with shame – her running down the stairs of the castle, crying in front of him and his knights, begging him not to leave until someone had to grab her and take her away. Arthur had looked at her with pity, then confusion. By now he probably thought she was crazy. Perhaps it was true.
#
She screamed at Uther for what felt like hours.
Accusing men of sorcery and condemning them with no proof seemed to have become his new favourite past time, and she only had so much strength to keep expressing her disdain and accusing him of paranoia.
Eventually she gave up, feeling more powerless than ever. What use were her fine dresses and sparkling jewels, what use was her role as the King's ward, if her voice counted for nothing at that court.
She only caught a fleeting glance from Arthur as she walked away from the throne room.
There had been a time, once, when she was always able to tell what he was thinking. Now she was not sure what to make of his frown. Was it pity? Was it anger?
#
It was a cloudy morning with a light haze, promising rain over the mountains, and Morgana watched the public execution through the glass of her window, like she had done many times before.
The convicted was led to the scaffold by the guards, in front of a crowd of men, women, even children. He looked old enough to be her dead father. At least that was how she would have pictured him - if his hair had had the time to turn grey, his eyes to grow wrinkles at the corners.
His countenance was so peaceful she couldn't imagine someone would go and rat him out, accuse him of sorcery. And what if he is a sorcerer anyway, she thought bitterly; what kind of crime did that imply.
The man raised his head to stare at Uther, who was looking down on him from the shelter of his balcony.
"Even a dead man has a right to his last words, Uther Pendragon," he said loud and clear, making himself heard over the noises of the crowd. "I walk to my death with joy in my heart, because my people have the wisdom of the stars. And they have read that your doom is approaching, as fast as the winds that blow over these roofs."
That caused even more tumult among the people, but Uther looked unbothered. He shook his head. "Stop talking, old man."
"Your kingdom will burn. And magic will rise again from its ashes."
Before he was finished, Uther made an idle gesture with his arm, and the guards grabbed the man by his shoulders.
Tears prickled Morgana's eyes. She forced herself to keep watching as the man got dragged unresisting to the gallows. Through the fog, for one second, she thought she saw him throw a glance in her direction.
#
That night Arthur knocked at her door with a plate in his hand.
"I brought you something to eat."
The sun was fading. From her position, sitting in her bed, Morgana could barely make out the prince's figure. Soon she would have to light candles. "I'm not hungry, but thank you."
She had refused to dine with the King (had actually felt offended that he even had the nerve to ask). Images from that execution were still crowding her mind, the dead man's words echoing in her ears. Your doom is approaching. Your kingdom will burn.
"My father is worried about you," Arthur said.
It was an old habit, to always speak in the name of his father. But the serious look on his face made her think he was sharing his worries, at least a little. That pleased her.
"Nothing to worry about," she shrugged. "I am just tired."
Arthur left the plate on the table and moved a couple steps closer.
He looked handsome. He was wearing a white shirt, the sleeves loosely rolled up to his elbows. The fading light from the window fell right on his face, making his eyes look as bright as a summer sky. "You have been tired for a while. I almost never see you anymore."
"Oh. Do you miss me?"
He smirked. "Hardly."
She couldn't help but smile back as that weird tension between them started to ease up.
"But I did wonder if you were avoiding me for some reason," he continued, sounding somehow uncertain.
Morgana looked at him under her eyelashes, considering - worrying that, if their eyes met, he would see right through her. "As I said, I am just tired."
"Mor-ga-na."
Once again the corners of her lips lifted against her will. Although he meant to spell her name like a mockery, it sounded like a song to her ears. "Well, I wondered if you were avoiding me."
He looked puzzled. "What?"
"After that scene I made, when you were going off to find the Questing Beast." Her past shame made her voice fall to a whisper. "You must think me mad after that."
"I do."
She raised her head in surprise, but Arthur's eyes were not betraying any emotion.
"I mean, you keep shouting at the King," he said. "Giving opinionsat any given moment instead of, you know, minding your own business." He shrugged, his face suddenly wearing a skeptical expression. "Denying my undeniable good looks."
A small laugh escaped her lips, and while she shook her head, he relaxed in a smile as well. "There are so many reasons why I think you are the maddest woman in this kingdom," he continued. "But your nightmares do not fit in that list."
A wave of gratitude flooded her heart, and after a few seconds she had to remind herself to stop staring at him. She knew her eyes would give too much away.
There were some unspoken rules for her, when it came to their relationship: never let your guard down; shield your heart with pride. But sometimes, in moments like that, all her defences crumbled down and she forgot why she needed an armour in the first place.
When she just fell into the fun of bickering with him, like a child caught up in a game. Or when he said something that showed just how well he knew her (even without really knowing her at all).
Arthur went to get the plate from the table again, brought it to her.
"Lemon cake. Your favourite."
She almost blushed with pleasure. "Thanks."
Who knew lemon cake could be so sweet.