III

Soon Morgana knew she was able to start fires.

Her fingertips were matches, and small flames grew in the palm of her hand if only she was mad enough, unrestrained enough for the magic to spark. The first time it happened at night, during one of her dreams. As Camelot burned in her head, the curtains of her bed also caught fire, followed by a screeching sound so loud to wake the entire castle – only later she realized it was her own scream.

People walked in and out of her chambers, throwing buckets of water to stop the flames, then coming to her to make sure she was not hurt. The faces of her friends – Gwen, Gaius, Merlin – all blurred together; for a good while she couldn't seem to wake up completely, half in the present moment and half lost in the fog of the nightmare.

At some point she recognized Arthur's touch in her hair, his soothing voice in her ears. "Morgana, it's alright. You're awake."

Only then she stopped fidgeting and found solace in the familiarity of his warmth, all but collapsing in his arms.

She remembered old times, when they were children and sometimes he heard her cry in the middle of the night. She would wake up to him, barefoot at her side, his small hand closed around hers; he would stay there with her as long as she needed, until she forgot about her nightmare and fell asleep again. Those memories came like a flash of lightning, and right there and then, she knew she loved him – always had, always would.

#

The flames started spreading.

At first it was farmers from the far country, coming to cry before the King because their harvest had burnt under the sun, literally turned to dead ashes, killing all their supplies for the coming winter. Morgana saw Uther's face warp as Gaius leaned towards him: "It was probably caused by the drought, my Lord, nothing more."

Then a burning red was colouring the face of the citadel, setting barns on fire, empty wells and abandoned huts. There were no casualties; as if some good god was watching from above, someone always arrived in time to stop the flames from spreading to populated areas (but only just).

Morgana's dreams didn't stop – if anything, they got worse. All those people who once had cheered for her to become Queen were now whispering about the accident in her chambers, about the sleeping potions prepared for her by the court's physician. Day by day she found herself avoiding crowds, any social occasion that was not strictly required of her; she couldn't bear to look in those people's eyes and see a monster looking back. The walls of the castle became her safe harbour, and all she could do was hope they were tall enough.

Was it possible her visions were translating to reality, forcing her to sleepwalk around the city at night? Was she raising fires that she forgot about in the morning?

#

"Fires like that are not born of a human hand," Uther sentenced, as everyone knew he would. "It's like a curse. It's like someone wants to send a threat."

"There has not been any rain for weeks, father," Arthur suggested weakly. "Maybe the fires started naturally. Or by mistake."

"There are too many. They're not natural."

Morgana sat in her place next to the throne, in silence; for once she agreed with Uther, but she was not going to admit it. There was a transparent veil covering his eyes, as it happened every time his anxiety got the best of him and he started seeing sorcerers everywhere – hidden in the walls, behind bushes, ready to jump at his throat and throw the order he had so carefully built into chaos.

"Search all houses for any source of magic," he concluded, looking straight at his son. "I want it found."

Morgana raised an eyebrow. "How is he supposed to find it if he doesn't know what he is looking for?"

"Anything suspicious. Any possible proof. I want all suspects of magic burned at the stake by tomorrow morning."

Everything went still. The ember glow of the sunset coloured the throne room, drawing shadows that stood paralyzed at their feet. Morgana could almost feel the blood leave her cheeks, painting her white as a sheet.

"Father…"

Arthur's tone was conciliatory. He tentatively moved a step forward, but Morgana cut in: "You speak like a mad man, Uther Pendragon."

Uther turned his eyes to her, anger already thundering in his pupils.

"I have no intention of fighting with you, Morgana. Say another word and I will have you thrown in the dungeons."

"Why bother," said Morgana. "Just have me burned at the stake."

She stormed out of the room before Uther could came out of his stunned silence.

#

"Morgana."

She could hear Arthur coming after her, but this time she didn't even want to listen to the excuses he would make for his father. "No," she said. "Go back to being Uther's little soldier."

"Don't."

The hurt in his voice forced her to stop and turn around. His stance was rigid, lips closed in a thin line. "Don't blame me for things I cannot control."

"Except you can. You could try, if you only let go of your blind devotion to him."

"He does what he does for the sake of the kingdom."

She shook his head, refusing to look at him. His loyalty was so fierce he wouldn't admit to his father's wrongdoings under torture – not out loud, anyway. Her mind fled somewhere else, wondering what would happen if he knew that Morgana herself could be one of those suspected sorcerers. Her guts told her he would never forsake her, but the mere thought of seeing fear, or hatred, in his eyes, made her shake.

Arthur seemed to take her silence for a sign of surrender. He took a few tentative steps; his hand rose to her cheek, brushing lightly with his thumb. "Are we going to fight over this?"

She didn't want to fight. She wanted to lean into his touch, kiss him senseless and have him carry her to his chambers, where every thought of flames and ashes would be erased under the force of his passion, the tenderness of his hands.

A sigh left her lips as she removed his fingers from her face.

His glance hardened. "We will never see eye to eye about this," he said.

"No," she agreed, and for a second she noticed the stunning resemblance Arthur bore to his father, his features almost blending into Uther's. "No, never."

#

It only took an hour for Arthur and his knights to be ready, set on their mission to search the whole citadel for any sign of magic. Morgana sneaked out of the castle and followed them from a distance, wearing a red hood under the gleaming sun, hoping to blend in among eccentric merchants and travellers.

The news of their mission had probably spread, because people were rushing left and right in the streets, whispering nervously as they saw the knights approach. Morgana thought it would take hours, days, to search the entire city, in that mist of grey and indecision. She was wrong. The party didn't even have to pass the town's square to find what they were looking for.

"It's him, my Lord!" yelled an angry butcher, pulling a boy by the scruff of the neck. "He's the arsonist!"

The alleged arsonist was a child with ragged clothes and a hat way too big for his head. He was fighting for his life, grunting and kicking with all his might, but the man wouldn't let go of him.

Arthur dismounted from his horse, looking doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"I saw him with my own eyes, my Lord! He is my apprentice! His eyes changed colour, and smoke started coming out of the walls. Out of nowhere!"

He gave the boy a strong tug, making him hiss, and Arthur stepped forward. "Let go of him."

Reluctantly, the butcher released his hold on the child, who gave a quick look at his surroundings – guards everywhere, people snooping all around – before deciding there was no use in trying to run. Morgana suddenly thought of Mordred. Although this kid had nothing of Mordred's appearance, his eyes had the same cleverness to them; not to mention the fact that they were both victims, their lives threatened in the name of a despotic king.

"He is a sorcerer, I'm sure of that!", repeated the butcher. "He was trying to set my shop on fire. I noticed just in time!"

Arthur was not even listening. He looked directly at the child.

"Is that true, boy?"

"NO!" he shouted. "It wasn't me! It was HER!"

He pointed at something in the crowd behind them, and just like that, two more people came out of their hideout: two young girls, one dragging the other by the sleeve. The youngest was around fifteen years old and kept crying and sniffing, claiming she hadn't done it on purpose.

"She's telling the truth," said a close voice in her ear, making Morgana jump.

Guiomar was standing next to her, wrapped in a green cloak like the one she had seen in her dreams. Maybe the familiarity of that image was the reason why she wasn't surprised in the slightest to see him again.

"It is time, my lady."

He exchanged a glance with two people she didn't recognize, who were standing at different corners of the square and gazing at her with something that dangerously looked like expectation. "Who are them?" she said.

Guiomar nodded. "Friends. They're here to help."

"Help who?"

"You," he said. "And those poor kids."

Realization was slowly dawning on her, but the devil was in the detail and her head was pounding so hard she couldn't even put together a general picture. She threw a look at Arthur, who was now offering a handkerchief to the crying girl, before grabbing Guiomar by a sleeve. "Come with me."

Guiomar let her push him to the closest alley, away from the crowd and the stalls of the market.

"The fires in Camelot," she said without whispering, protected by the walls. "Do you have anything to do with them?"

His lips narrowed to a thin line. "I didn't mean harm."

"Did you set a curse on Camelot? Is that why you came to fight in the tournament?"

"Not a curse," he said. "I merely lighted a spark, Morgana. A spark of magic. So that people like you – like those kids – could see the gift they possess. Its potential."

"You made me…"

Morgana shook her head, thinking of the curtains in her chambers catching fire, the fear she had felt – that she was irrevocably out of control, that maybe she was the one wandering the city, starting fires she couldn't even remember. "You made us start the fires."

"I wanted people with magic to reveal themselves," he said. "I wanted to find them."

"Those are children!"

"Exactly," he agreed. "They need guidance. We're here to help them."

"Help them?" Her eyes were getting wet – whether because of her anger, or sadness, or a sense of impending doom, she had no idea. "You exposed them. They will be executed at dawn!"

"That is not going to happen. We are here to fetch them. And you."

Every piece was coming together, as it should have done before if she hadn't been so blind. Guiomar was raising an army. He wanted to take them to the woods and become their mentor, train them in the arts of sorcery until they were powerful enough to take Uther down, like he told her at the tournament. Isn't that good?, a voice in her head whispered. Isn't that fair, that the persecuted rise against their persecutor?

"I already told you," she said. "I will not come."

She didn't know if she was trying to convince Guiomar or herself; and judging by his knowing look, he saw right through her. "I will wait in the forest, at the old oak," he said. "At sunrise."

#

Arthur was staring outside his window, arms resting against the sill, the fading light of the sunset colouring his frame. Morgana gave a discreet cough to make her presence known. She put a timid hand on his back, let it slide to his shoulder; for a second he remained still, and she worried that maybe he was still mad at her. Then he moved closer, acknowledging her touch.

Morgana could almost see the images passing through his head, behind his blank stare and the wrinkles on his forehead: those children, lying in a dark dungeon, waiting with another dozen of convicts to meet their fate as soon as the sun rose over the hills. She knew that guilt was eating at Arthur's heart, battling against his loyalty to his father.

"Those people will be fine." She passed her hand through his hair, suddenly feeling compelled to touch every part of him that she could.

"How do you know that?"

"It's just a feeling."

"You and your feelings," he teased. There was so much fondness in his voice that an impossible thought crossed her mind without permission - maybe he would run away with her. Drop everything, give up his throne, follow her into the woods. The Prince of Camelot, living in the woods with druids and sorcerers. What an idea.

That was not the life Arthur wished for. He wanted to ask Uther permission to marry her – he had never said it, but deep down she knew all it took was a word from her. She knew him. And maybe Uther would allow it; he never seemed opposed to such a union. And then? If Guiomar succeeded with his plans, they would rule over a kingdom of ashes. And if he didn't, she would still join those kids at the stake when the King came to see her for who she really was.

"You should get some sleep."

She kissed his neck as he leaned into her embrace, all but falling in her arms. "Don't go," he whined.

For once his childishness tugged at her heartstrings. She had to force a smile, get away from his hands no matter how much she already missed that warmth – that feeling of home.

"Get some sleep." Do not hate me.

#

Branches were trembling, shaken by the light wind, and leaves were shining with dew and the pink undertones of the sky. Dawn, but not quite yet.

The children who had been accused of sorcery were there, safe and sound, standing at the edge of the forest with many others - humble women in grey clothes, men with the signs of the chains still around their arms.

Under the shadow of the old oak, Guiomar looked at her with a sort of quiet pride, the emerald hood hiding half of his face. Morgana was about to ask him how he had gotten all those people out of the dungeons, but something told her this was not how the scene was supposed to go. She had seen it before.

Guiomar's hand reached for her, just like in her dreams.

She took it.

###

Autumn leaves fell and snow glistened on the ground many times before she saw Arthur again.

Her dreams had been so vivid, once: the castle under assault, crumbling under the weight of the druids' power; Guiomar's men opening their way toward the King with fire and ashes. Little had she known that, when the time came, she would be with them. And never had she felt in her nostrils the smell of blood, or envisioned the path she would walk in the castle's dungeons to free Guiomar's allies. Or how the wall would get thinner and thinner while she raced against the shadows, only the soft light of the torches watching her steps.

"Morgana."

She froze. Arthur's presence in his own castle shouldn't have surprised her, and yet his appearance down there was so unforeseen, so out of place, that for a moment of folly she wondered if she was dead and staring at a ghost. "I thought you would be leading the knights in battle," she admitted, almost feeling out of breath.

The hilt of her sword was getting warm under her fingers as she took Arthur's figure in. His face was the same but something about it looked different, like it had grown harder over time; he also looked stronger, more mature, even in the way he merely stood there in his armour. He had become a stranger, almost - and yet she would have recognized his voice anywhere.

They stared at each other, and even the wind seemed to have stopped breathing.

Arthur was the first to lower his sword. "How could you do this to us?"

His sadness was like a dagger to her heart. In his eyes she recognized those of the boy she had once known like the palm of her hand; and even now, she knew with the certainty of death that he was using his father as a shield for his own hurt. How could you this to me, was what he really meant.

She held on to her sword, feeling her resolution weaken. "Uther must fall. I had no choice."

"You never told me." It was like he wasn't even listening, lost in his own thread of thought. "That you had magic."

"I tried."

"You didn't trust me."

"No," she agreed. "You are Uther's son."

"But I loved you."

Her heart skipped a beat. This time he wasn't hiding behind a we – now that it was too late, and the past tense stung a little more than she cared to admit. "Would you have loved me?", she asked. "If you had known?"

Maybe Arhur could sense the trap she was dangling. He did not answer.

His unspoken words were cutting like a knife, and she had to make an effort not to look away. He was hurting, too. Buried under that silence there were tears, and regret, things that could have gone differently if their choices had been something else – or maybe if the stars had written another story.

Morgana heard the sound of quick steps approaching, echoing through the walls. A surge of panic rose to her chest – Guiomar would not look for Arthur, he promised. But what if he just happened to cross his path?

She lowered her sword. "Leave."

"Morgana."

"I'm not alone," she said quickly. "Go. I wish you no harm."

The space between them was unsurmountable, lines blurring as she saw both her enemy and her lover fade before her eyes. As he turned his back and walked away in the darkness, she felt that same, familiar ache in her chest.

A part of her heart would always follow him.

fin.