Between the Lines
"A book," Arthur said, striding toward the horses near the devastated fields. "A book on manners." His lips curled into a soft smile.
He pictured a young Morgana with unruly black hair, grinning mischievously as she dared him to sneak extra honey cakes from the kitchens. He stole it, hand trembling, grabbing one for her, too. They'd snickered through the entire incident as they hid beneath one of the stairwells and ate the cates, terrified 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. He nodded with gratitude, Arthur flicking his head slightly, unaccustomed to openly showing his deep care for Merlin.
"Um," Merlin said, resuming their walk to the horses, looking as awkward as Arthur felt. They resumed their walk "Do you know why she values it?"
"Lady Vivienne wrote it especially for her." Sadness laced his words. He wondered what such a treasure from his mother would have meant to him. "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 Lord Gorlois' death. 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." He chuckled. "I was eight years old. She was ten."
Arthur paused, the sounds around them filling the silence: a horse's neigh, a crow's caw, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He looked at Merlin, his emotions a mixture of pain and warmth.
"She told me that it was given to her by 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 had been blessed with the love of a mother his entire life; he'd never known his, had never filled that space that belonged especially to mothers. Morgana had lost Vivienne after only two meager years. It was no wonder he saw the value of Morgana's treasure even if only a moment ago he'd wanted to kill her.
Merlin's face softened as he laid a gentle hand on Arthur's shoulder. "You have mementos from her now."
Some of Queen Ygraine's effects were recovered in the abandoned royal apartments that he and Gwen now occupied, almost afraid to open the dusty chest locked away. It was almost like the thrill of stealing the honey cakes for him and Morgana. He'd opened it alone, not even Merlin was present.
Tears rolled his cheeks as he carefully removed the objects: an ivory comb, a silver hand mirror, an old doll, a few books, and an embroidered gown, sentimental things that hinted at who she was. The small treasure trove still brought him a little closer to the mother he never knew and always yearned for.
"Yes, I suppose." Shuffling his feet, shoulders slumped slightly, his usual confident posture faltering into a sense of loss.
"Do you …" His voice was almost a whisper, his gaze angled downwards and not quite meeting Merlin's eyes. "That woman we saw in Morgause's lair – do you think she was my mother?"
His question hung in the air, tinged with barely restrained longing. Years ago, Morgause had conjured his mother from the Vale, her only purpose to reveal the secret of his birth long since buried and forbidden to be spoken of. That Uther was responsible for her death because of a pact he'd made with Nimueh.
"Arthur..." he began, his tone soft. He placed another supportive hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I cannot imagine how meaningful it was for you to see her, if only for a moment."
Arthur's lowered gaze, but Merlin ducked his head to meet his, offering an understanding smile. "Yes, I truly believe that was your mother you saw that day. Her love for you was bright as the sun."
His grip tightened, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "No magic could ever replicate a mother's love so purely. What you felt in your heart tells you the truth – that was Queen Ygraine."
The strands of pearls woven in Ygraine's coifed blonde hair and a pale blue gown as beautiful as the queen flooded his thoughts. Rushing into his longing arms was more than he could ever wish for and he didn't want to let go.
"She will always be with you, Arthur." Merlin's voice radiated gentle optimism, leaving no room for doubt or second-guessing. "Hold onto that feeling of the 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, providing him some measure of comfort and closure. He'd carried tormented guilt for believing he caused his mother's death all his life. Learning that it was Uther's selfishness and deal with Nimueh that had sealed Ygraine's fate. It infuriated him, appalled him: her life for his. He shook away the memories, no longer wanting to experience the pain and anguish that had unfolded that day.
"Well," he said softly. "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 to let the king reemerge.
They returned to the castle saying little to each other. After Arthur had grudgingly 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 not as polished as others.
"These notes were written by Morgana," he told himself, "Private, longing messages for her deceased mother and father."
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 imagined the little girl who wrote those notes sitting 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 Morgana, how it shaped her.
Recalling his words spoken to Arthur earlier today, that she must be worthy of something so say the gods. How he truly believed them now.
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."