Between the Lines
"Yes," Arthur said, striding toward the horses near the fence bordering the devastated fields. "A book on manners."
His lips curled into a soft smile as he pictured a young Morgana with unruly black hair, grinning mischievously as she dared him to sneak extra honey cakes from the kitchens. With a trembling hand, he did, grabbing one for her, too. They'd snickered through the entire incident as they stole away and ate the cates beneath one of the stairwells, frightened and thrilled at the same time. That was a long time ago, before darkness and betrayal strained their childhood bond.
"Manners?" Merlin squeaked, stumbling on the uneven ground. Arthur caught his arm, steadied him gently. "Do you know why she treasures it?"
A solemn gaze met Merlin's as they resumed their walk. "Lady Vivienne wrote it especially for her. Inside the margins are handwritten, personal messages to Morgana."
"Lady Vivienne of Tintagel." Merlin blew air threw his lips. "That is something special."
"Morgana was clutching it when she arrived here for the first time. I teased her incessantly over it. Told her that I didn't think she even knew how to read since she had the manners of a ferret. I was eight years old. She was 10."
Arthur paused, the sounds around them filling the silence: a horse's neigh, a crow's caw, Merlin's heartbeat pounding in his own ears. The king looked at him, his eyes an amalgam of pain and warmth.
"She told me that it was given to her by Lord Gorlois years after Lady Vivienne died. It was one of the few connections she had to her mother … more than I've ever had to mine."
Merlin's eyebrows knit together, his lips turning down at the corners. He laid a gentle hand on Arthur's shoulder. Having been blessed with the love of a mother his entire life, Arthur had never known his, had never filled that space that belonged especially to mothers. Morgana had lost hers after only two meager years. It was no wonder Arthur saw the value of her treasure even if only a moment ago he'd wanted to kill her.
"You have mementos from her now," Merlin said, recalling that Arthur had found some of Queen Ygraine's effects in the abandoned royal apartments that he and Gwen now occupied. Arthur was overwhelmed at what he'd discovered, a small treasure trove that brought him a little closer to the mother he never knew and always yearned for.
"Yes, I suppose." After another contemplative pause, Arthur's brow furrowed. Shuffling his feet, shoulders slumped slightly, his usual confident posture faltering.
"Do you …" His voice was almost a whisper, his gaze angled downwards and not quite meeting Merlin's eyes. "Do you think that woman we saw in Morgause's lair – do you think she was my mother?"
Arthur's question hung in the air, hesitant and tinged with barely restrained longing. Merlin's heart swelled with compassion for his friend. Years ago, Morgause had conjured Ygraine Pendragon from the Vale, her only purpose to incite strife between Arthur and Uther by revealing the secret of his birth long since buried and forbidden to be spoken of.
"Arthur..." he began, keeping his tone soft. He placed another comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I cannot imagine how meaningful it was for you to see her, if only for a moment."
He ducked his head to meet Arthur's lowered gaze, offering an understanding smile. "Yes, I truly believe that was your mother you saw that day. Her love for you shone as bright as the sun."
His grip tightened on Arthur's shoulder, giving a supportive squeeze. "No magic could ever replicate a mother's love so purely. What you felt in your heart tells you the truth - that was Ygraine."
Merlin remembered the strands of pearls woven in Ygraine's coifed blonde hair and a pale blue gown as beautiful as the queen. Rushing into her son's longing arms, the sight had chilled him at the time, and that feeling lingered until now. By all appearances, she was Arthur's mother.
"She will always be with you, Arthur." Merlin's voice radiated gentle conviction, leaving no room for doubt or second-guessing. For Arthur's sake, he injected his words with delicate optimism. "Hold onto that feeling of wholeness she gave you, brief though it was. Let it give you strength, and know that you carry her love wherever you go."
Merlin smiled kindly, hoping the validation provided Arthur some measure of comfort and closure. He'd carried tormented guilt for believing he caused his mother's childbearing death all his life. Learning that it was Uther's selfish pact with Nimueh that had sealed Ygraine's fate had infuriated and appalled him: her life for his.
The ride back to the castle had been in silence, the air thick and palpable with bitterness and rage. Merlin could only imagine what raced through Arthur's mind: father used magic; father—cause of mother's death; father—cause of Great Purge; father—liar; father—hypocrite!
The king and prince had battled in the lesser hall with deadly ferocity, Arthur's face twisted in fury, veins bulging from his neck as he spat venomous accusations not at his king, but solely at his father. One stroke from thrusting his sword into Uther's chest, Merlin's quick intervention denouncing all they'd seen as a trick of Morgause to get Arthur to turn against Uther stayed his weapon.
Uther's nervous reassurance that Merlin was telling the truth, Arthur sank to his knees beside the throne and wept with stuttering repentance, his father caressing his head with calm and loving strokes.
"Well," Arthur said softly, drawing Merlin's attention back to now. "At least I was able to see her once. To hold her."
Merlin bobbed his head. "There's nothing more precious than that. I assure you."
Arthur nodded. "It's all right, then," he said, sighing away the moment of sentiment to let the king reemerge.
They returned to the castle. After Arthur had reluctantly handed over the book, Merlin wrestled with one question: Should he look at its contents? He pondered it all the way to the king's lake, where he would summon the dragon to take him to Morgana. Having tethered the horse, he placed his hand in his pocket. Feeling strangely reassured by the soft leather covering of the well-preserved book, he pulled it from his pocket. He'd call for the dragon in a moment.
It was a small, innocuous thing the size of a pamphlet, no embossed lettering or family crest to draw attention or decorative images to entice the eye. It was an unimpressive, brown leather-bound book.
His fingers tingled as they grasped the worn leather cover. A battle raged within him, his curiosity flaring hotly, urging him to peek inside, to learn Morgana's secrets. Yet his conscience pushed back screaming that this book was deeply personal, not meant for prying eyes.
Still, should he open it? The temptation to know exploded within him. He flipped the cover open and read the title page.
"The Essentials of Etiquette for Our Young Maiden of Tintagel by Lady Vivienne La Fay." It felt like an invasion, an unveiling of secrets not meant for his eyes. He bit his lip, hesitating, but then turned the page.
"'For my dearest, Morgana. Many will offer you advice in your lifetime: accept it with grace and prudence. May these few words from my heart find a place in yours and lead you to happiness and success. From your loving mother in the year of our Lord six hundred and seventy.'"
He didn't have to think hard about that date, and his heart constricted with sorrowful realization. "Morgana was born that year," he said softly.
Carefully paging through the book, his heart pounded looking at the simple, yet beautifully colored imagery bursting from the inside of its pages. Flowers, butterflies, and other images that would delight a child were paired with elegant script on etiquette for young ladies. He glimpsed the handwritten notes in the margins, some of the script obviously not as polished as the rest.
"These notes were written by a young Morgana," he told himself, "Private, longing messages for her deceased mother and father, Lord Gorlois."
With a shaky exhale, he snapped the book shut, his face reddening, his heart aching from a child's pain written on pages that no one else should read. How alone she must have felt, an orphan in a strange new home.
Tears blur his vision. Morgana was just as fragile as the next person and sometimes he forgot that she hadn't always been evil. She was misguided. Her gaunt face and eyes sunken with dark circles the day before her execution flashed in his mind. He could feel her despair. He saw the little girl who wrote those notes on that stool getting her hair sheared off, the book clutched in her tiny hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. He'd never realized how heavily this loss weighed on her, how it shaped her.
Recalling his words spoken to Arthur earlier today about her that she must be worthy of something, so say the gods. How, he truly believed them.
And although she had broken his trust, he knew that could be reforged with time, if it ever came at all. "She has value," he thought.
"She isn't lost entirely," he said to himself, cementing his new perspective. "She has value."