II

When a mysterious knight came to Camelot for the annual Crown tournament, Morgana was finally able to give a face to the stranger she kept seeing in her dreams, a voice to the words that slipped away from her memory every morning.

Helmet under his arm, the man stepped proudly in front of the King's tribune.

"Your Majesty," he bowed. "My name is Guiomar."

His long hair shone of gold under the scorching sun. He was probably in his thirties, standing tall like he didn't fear a thing in the world, exuding charm from every pore - Morgana could bet ladies were already swooning in the crowd.

Guiomar claimed to come from a foreign island that was too small to appear in any map, the son of a lord that had once been of great help to the kingdom, during the Great Purge. Bullshit, was the only word Morgana could think of. Déjà-vu flashed through her head as soon as the man looked in her direction.

"Lady Morgana," he called her, and that was all he said to her in her visions – her name.

In the nightmares he always wore a cloak and stretched his hand towards her, inviting her to take it and follow him. Now, strong and good-looking in his armour, he drew his sword instead, causing a gulp to escape her lips. "Bards chant your beauty throughout the realm," he claimed, "and yet they do not give it justice."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Uther give him an amused look.

"Will you offer me your favour today?"

Guiomar's eyes were intense, never strayed from her; and whereas people were probably whispering about how bold he was acting in his courtship, Morgana knew that little stunt had nothing to do with love. She was tempted to refuse and run away, if only there had been a way to do it without passing for an impolite brat.

So she stood up and gently threw him an embroidered handkerchief.

"Good luck, my lord," she said.

As he smiled with grace and tucked the token away in his armour, the crowd cheered. They had no idea that between her and Guiomar, under all the noise, there was another conversation going on. We have met before, he was saying with his eyes. What do you want, she was responding.

As soon as that silent exchange was broken and everything went into focus again, she caught sight of Arthur's face, behind the rows of knights, and felt a pang of guilt in her chest.

He looked hurt.

#

"Arthur?"

The prince didn't pay her any mind, forcing her to chase him towards the staircase of the guest wing – Merlin was struggling to keep up as well, especially with Arthur throwing him pieces and bits of his armour at every step.

"I know you are mad."

"Why would I be mad?"

Since he insisted on not turning back, Morgana exchanged a glance with Merlin. He just shrugged, giving a what are you going to do sort of look.

"I know I should not have given my favour," she said, because it was true. As the King's ward, it was improper for her to root openly for any of the knights. "But he asked in front of everyone. I couldn't turn him down, could I?"

"God forbid," Arthur snapped, finally stopping to flaunt a sarcastic grin. "The son of a foreign lord, too good of a party. How exotic."

Just like that, the sense of guilt she had felt for his little jealous outburst was already gone, overcome by irritation. "It's not what I meant," she said coldly. If he didn't want her flirting with other men he might as well admit it, instead of pulling her pigtails like an obnoxious child.

Arthur threw his chain mail at Merlin, who almost lost his balance (his face was now hidden behind a pillar of metal). "You can do whatever you want, Morgana," he claimed, like he had just read her mind. "It's not like your favour will make any difference, when it comes to combat. I always won just fine without it."

"Good," she shrugged. "It is none of your business anyway."

"Fine."

He turned around and took the stairs, poor Merlin staggering in his trail.

So much for lemon cake and good intentions, Morgana thought bitterly. Every time it seemed they were getting closer, it was only to repel each other with more force.

#

The torches dropped flickering shrouds of light in the corridor to the dining room, making the walls look like stages for dancing shadows. Morgana stood behind a pillar, so still she could have blended in among the castle's marble statues; she was waiting for the knights to be done with their supper.

When they emerged from the wooden door the men walked straight ahead. Some of them seemed a bit tipsy, laughing at some joke and not paying any attention to their surroundings; Guiomar was the only one to distance himself and come right to her corner, as if he had known the whole time she'd be there. "My lady."

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"It hurts me a bit that you do not remember."

He showed off a bright smile. That attitude reminded her of Arthur's; they both possessed wit and good looks, and they were both insufferably aware of that. "I introduced myself this morning, at the tournament."

"Spare me."

Morgana looked over her shoulder. God forbid someone else was around to assist to that weird conversation. "Is Guiomar even your real name?"

"You remember, then."

"I dreamed of you."

At that his face became more serious, although he didn't seem surprised. "Interesting."

The creaking sound of the torches was slow and regular like it was counting seconds. For a bit Guiomar was pensive; then he cleared his throat. "Yes, Guiomar is my real name. I have come to fetch you, my lady."

"Fetch me?"

"You are in danger here," he said, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "If you have premonitions, it means your magic is getting more powerful by the minute."

Morgana froze. She had talked about her dreams to Gaius various times, had even called them premonitions in the privacy of her thoughts, but no one had ever dared to say out loud that she had magic. Somehow voicing it made it seem much more real.

Her brain was working furiously. Was it worth it to deny everything? Did he know even more than she did? "How did you know about me?" she asked.

"There are many prophecies written about you." He leaned so that his words could only reach her ears. "The druids have read them all in the stars."

Morgana was almost afraid to ask, "What prophecies?"

"The Pendragons must fall," said Guiomar, "so that magic can rise. You have an important role to play in that. Our people will chant your name, and call you Morgana Le Fay."

They were so close now that the only perceptible sound was that of their breathing, and the pulse of her heart, thumping in her chest.

If that man was speaking the truth, then all her nightmares came to her for a reason – maybe one day her gift would serve a greater good, something that Uther could never envision but might nonetheless exist. Creatures of magic – people like her - would come out of the shadows and live in peace, free of the Damocles sword that had been hanging on their head for so much time.

Then Guiomar's words came rushing back to her mind: for all that to happen, the Pendragons must fall. "I will not betray the Pendragons," she said instinctively.

"Uther Pendragon is a tyrant, my lady. You have seen it with your own eyes."

"Arthur is not."

Guiomar had a moment of pause. "Maybe he is a good man," he conceded. "But not enough to bury his family's hatred for magic."

"You don't know that," she said with force. "I will not join you."

Morgana didn't even know if she was trying to convince Guiomar or herself. Panic was suddenly setting every fibre of her body on fire, overwhelming her like she was standing on the brink of the abyss. She detached her shoulders from the wall and run - almost fearing that man could snap his fingers and make her disappear, take her away from everything she loved.

She was already at the end of the corridor when she heard his whispered response – didn't know if it had really been uttered or was just a product of her imagination.

"You will. If you don't, Camelot will burn."

#

The time came for the final duel of the tournament.

As it was expected of the defending champion, Arthur had prevailed over all his rivals; so had Guiomar, who had proved himself a worthy opponent – until they were the only knights left, face to face, and Morgana couldn't help but think it was too big of a coincidence for a simple twist of fate.

The reason why Guiomar had chosen to fight in the tournament still escaped her. She had been observing every duel from the tribune, looking out for any sign of trouble, but as far as she could tell he had never resorted to magic of any kind. Maybe he had simply wanted to find a way into the castle - to her – without arousing suspicion.

Another option, much more unsettling, was that his real aim from the beginning was to fight Arthur and kill him, thus setting his mission against the Pendragons in motion.

That thought left her petrified. She had attended each one of Arthur's fights holding her breath, almost fearing that Guiomar could come out of a bush and suddenly cross his sword with the prince's - cause his fatal downfall in one, well-placed blow.

#

The night before the duel, Morgana knocked at Arthur's door and was only greeted by silence.

His chambers were in desperate need of Merlin's attention – plates were scattered on the table and clothes thrown in piles over chairs – but in that mess there was a familiarity that brought her back to when they were children, playing hide and seek inside trunks and behind closed curtains. She sat on his bed and took hold of a shirt he had left between the sheets, curved in a ball; it smelled like him, jasmine and a hint of sweat.

Darkness was falling around her, and everything in that room – the pillows, heralds, even the shirt and Arthur's very presence – everything seemed to be getting far and far away, like it was slowly slipping beyond her reach. In her white nightgown and scarlet shrug, she felt like a ghost herself.

When Arthur opened the door and found her there, his stance turned rigid.

"What are you doing here?"

She took a deep breath, willing her body to relax. She had not come to fight.

"I was waiting for you."

"Why?"

"To wish you good luck," she said. "For tomorrow."

For once he seemed unsettled. He was studying her face, clearly trying to determine if there was some trick behind that display of goodwill. "Thank you, but I do not need luck to win against your suitor. He's good, but not that good."

Although he was going back to his old grin and cockiness, she could still see the uncertainty under that façade. Whether it was due to his nerves for the fight or mere jealousy, she was not sure.

"I know," she whispered, and stood up to get closer to him. At her proximity he swallowed a lump in his throat, spurring her on.

Sometimes it felt like her attraction to him had more to do with power than anything. How intoxicating it was, to have such an effect on another person. She could make him squirm with a single smile, if she wanted; she could bat her eyelashes, speak softly and manipulate him into doing her will. Maintain some semblance of control in a house where she didn't always feel at home.

"I know you do not need my favour either." Morgana took off a scarlet ribbon from her hair, letting black waves spread on her shoulders, and looked at him with all the sincerity she could muster – wanting him to know that, for once, there was no trick. "But I want you to have it anyway."

Gently, shaking, she took hold of his hand, half expecting him to pull away like he had been burned. But he didn't - if anything, he was trembling too as she tied the ribbon around his forearm. A thrill of excitement went through her as her fingertips brushed against his skin.

His eyes got dark as she had rarely seen them, his mouth slightly open like he was trying to catch his breath. "Thank you," he said in a whisper.

Her hand was still on his arm. She was almost afraid to move, to make any noise that would break that intimacy and pull them apart again; and yet, against all reason, she felt herself leaning like some force of gravity was pushing her in his arms.

Arthur contemplated her for a second that seemed to last an eternity. Then his hand was on the small of her back, drawing her closer, and his lips caught hers with sudden force.

He kissed her with ferocity, pressing her whole body against his, and she responded with equal strength, raising her hand to touch his face while the other arm flew around his neck. If he had given her space to breathe she would have probably burst out in a laugh, such was the rush of euphoria flooding over her. This, she thought as he pushed her towards his bed, this was her home.

#

Kisses became thrusts, and ragged breathings became moans.

His face buried in the crook of her neck, Arthur pushed inside her with more force the more she cried out, and her nails scratched his skin deeper the deeper he went. A brief pain had soon been replaced by a pleasure that built and built, until every kiss felt like a blessing, every movement a step closer to heaven.

"Oh, don't stop," she moaned, all her pride thrown out of the window. "Just don't stop."

He started to say her name but midway it turned into a grunt. He grabbed one of her hands instead, moving it over her head as he kept thrusting obediently.

They had wasted so much time. If only they had called a truce before; if only she had raised a white flag and showed him how much she cared, if only he had thrown all caution to the winds and just told her that he wanted her like that.

Another moan slipped from her lips, and she could only hope there weren't any guards passing outside; because Arthur's hand disappeared under the sheets, and with another strong push he hit a spot that made her bend her head backwards on the pillow, unintelligible sounds coming out of her mouth. She strengthened her hold on his shoulders, her vision turning white.

#

The following morning, Arthur confirmed himself as Camelot's champion.

When he raised his arm in victory, the tail of her red ribbon waved in the breeze like a flag, standing out against the grey of his chainmail. Under all the cheering and the whistles, his eyes found hers, speaking a secret language that no one else could understand.

Guiomar had taken a step back, letting Arthur celebrate his triumph. Morgana almost didn't notice him slowly retreat far from everyone's view; before disappearing behind the walls of the arena, he shot her a piercing glance and bowed his head. She heard his farewell like it had been spoken in her ear. Do not forget me, he said. We will meet again.