Warning! A little bit of noncon happens in this chapter. Look after yourself.

The Stone in the Pond

Time slipped by in crawls and spurts; a toddler finding its footing only to stumble once more. Merlyn had no control over her own mind, awareness dying in the middle of a sentence only to return in the dark of night, as sharp as a needle pricking the skin. She could not trust herself: in mind or body. Her physical strength waxed and waned like a capricious moon, knees buckling at a moment when she'd been sure they would hold, blood draining from her face like she'd sprung a leak in her toes, leaving her dizzy and unbalanced. She could walk up a staircase and be fine, then open a door and be weak as a lamb.

As it was, she ventured only once from the Physician's Chamber alone. In the grey of predawn, Merlyn crawled from her lumpy bed and her murky dreams to sneak beyond the borders of her cage. Gaius slept on obliviously as she tiptoed by, and she did not wake him; this a task she wanted to complete unaccompanied.

She slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, where the edge of brightness on the horizon ended the nightly curfew. Early risers would be up, prepping for their duties, so the patrolmen would grow lax in the last hours of their shifts, glassy-eyed with fatigue.

Merlyn entered the royal stables with guilt heavy in her heart, the ache sharpening in intensity when she was greeted with a deafening neigh from Sunstrider. The golden stallion was leaning against the gate, hopping from foot to foot in impatience. His stall had been extended to include the one beside it, which opened to a yard that he could come and go from as he pleased, but it was still too small a space for a young, energetic beast to remain indefinitely.

Everyone had been so busy with her, so focused on her health, the animal had been neglected. And, now it was clear things were not improving for Merlyn, it was time to buck up and be responsible.

"Come on boy," she murmured as she gentled his agitation with soft strokes to his cheeks. "Time you were given a little bit of freedom."

There were two large paddocks outside the city for retired or resting warhorses; one for mares and one for stallions – geldings split between them based on preference. It was usually reserved for the owners who couldn't bear to part with them after facing the horrors of war atop their backs, though there were a few kept by the coin of the castle for their notable deeds in battle. It might be manipulative, but Merlyn knew Arthur would not condemn Sunstrider if she added him to their ranks, despite there being little hope she would be around to bring him back in.

With sadness weighing her shoulders, she led the jittery, high-strung horse to the postern gate, thankful the streets were bare of patrons. She led him beyond the wall and into the paddock stretching down the grassy hill and onto plains that led into the forests beyond. She let him loose just beyond the main gate, and he took off like a shot when it was clear she expected nothing more from him, crying out to the small herd in the valley. Soon he was romping amongst them, tail high as he searched for his place in the hierarchy, and Merlyn knew it wouldn't be long before he was half feral with freedom. But as long as he was happy and healthy, she would be content.

And with that, she stepped back through the gate and returned to the castle, Sunstrider not noticing her absence at all.

She retreated to her room and sat listlessly at the edge of her bed, staring vacantly out of the small window as the sky brightened outside. Hours were lost before she moved again.

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Arthur did not ask his father's permission to leave Camelot again. The treaty was all but signed. The threat all but eliminated. The kings all but friends. There was no need for Arthur to linger in the city when he was of more use elsewhere. He cantered through the main gates when the sun was at its zenith, supplies and sleep roll tapping a rhythm against Hengroen's flank as he moved, determined to be far from Camelot by the time his father realised he was gone.

He pushed Hengroen through the day, only slowing a few times to give him a momentary break and once to let him drink, settling only a short couple of hours from the border when the night grew too dark to continue. He didn't bother with a fire, eating jerky and sipping water until he settled into his sleep roll with his sword in his lap and a tethered Hengroen munching on grass stalks nearby.

The next morn, he trotted out of the forest and into a transformed community, halting his horse in surprise of having entered the wrong village. Only – he wasn't in the wrong place. Ealdor – once a struggling farm village on the edge of decay – was now a small, thriving community. It was larger than before, some of the forest having been felled to make way for new, sturdier houses. The main dirt track cutting through the centre of the ramshackle huts had been widened and packed with gravel, lined by low, intersected fencing. It was now a proper road, broad enough for a carriage to pass and traffic to circulate. The epicentre of the houses – once set up to trap the raiders – had been broadened (a house or two must have been demolished for it) and was now a true town centre, edged with market stalls, seats, and a centrepiece in its very heart.

It was a beautifully designed centrepiece, if modest in size, built with clear intention to draw the eye. It appeared to be a herb garden, raised to thigh height and contained within a wall of smoothed rocks wide enough to act as a seat for villagers. But the focus of the piece sat in the middle of the vegetation; a beautiful, if rough, white-wood carving of a hooded figure stood atop a dais, hands extended in welcome. Something about it hinted at female, but the womanly curves were only suggested from beneath the long cloak. It sat at near half-scale and was done by a hand obviously unused to sculpting art; but it was valued, the wood polished and untouched by dust. It was the true centrepiece of the marketplace.

Arthur dismounted out of courtesy and walked the main road afoot, his clothes unadorned and his sword tucked beneath provisions on his steed. There were many new faces on the street but just as many he recognised from his last visit, and whispers erupted like spot fires before one youth sprinted away. His companion, an older gentleman with weathered features and worked skin, stepped forward in greeting. He looked familiar.

"Hail, friend!" he called with a nervous but sincere smile.

Arthur halted and nodded in greeting, a little unsettled with Ealdor's changes. The man continued with renewed confidence: "My apprentice has just gone to fetch Hunith. She will be here quickly."

"Thank you," he replied, gazing at the new buildings and lively atmosphere, people moving to and fro in their tasks but not without smiles or chatter. Eyes were not shy to linger, when he vividly remembered last he visited, they had not met his at all. He tried to articulate his surprise. "Ealdor has… grown."

The man also looked around, pride evident on his grizzled face. "New people came to our village, homeless, but not helpless. Their skills aided us in expanding to accommodate them, teaching us better ways to propagate our crops, introducing new plants for medicine, sharing their knowledge. And to think, we almost turned them away in fear of not having the resources to feed them."

A woman's voice interjected; "A just concern, even if unfounded," and the two men turned to face the newcomer. Hunith approached with a welcoming – if worried – smile, hair still wrapped beneath a blue scarf, and clothes still practical, if less threadbare. She drew to a halt before them and nodded to the grizzled man. "Thank you for sending for me, Sam."

"Of course, Hunith," he replied and looked behind the woman to the boy hanging in her shadow. "Come, boy, we still have work to do."

The boy scurried by, and the two left, Hunith waiting until they were beyond earshot before letting the worry pinch her features further. She peered at Arthur intently: "Is Merlyn alright?"

"As well as can be," he admitted but didn't divulge any further, not wanting to be distracted from his goal. "But I come with a possible solution, and a request."

"What is it?"

"I have need… of a sorcerer," he said lowly, watching the wariness overtake her stance. "I gained information from the Great Dragon, but in return, he demanded freedom. Only a sorcerer is capable of breaking his chains, yet Merlyn is unable."

"Come," Hunith ordered, angling herself back towards the alley whence she'd appeared. "Tell me what you know. I will be more help when I have the full story."

Arthur withheld a sigh, haste and anxiety eating at his patience, but he fell into step at her side obediently. He needed aid, and if it required an hour wasted with words, he could only think of the potential weeks saved in chasing rumours of ones who might help. It didn't mean he didn't heavily edit the story to save time – and, perhaps, gloss over the fact he and her daughter had kissed like lovers.

Hunith was no fool, however, and the knowing glint in her watchful eyes, told him she heard more than he said. He could only feel relief when she focused on the important pieces.

"No sorcerers powerful enough to summon the White Goddess live within Ealdor."

"Do you know of where one might live?" he asked, trying not to let his disappointment show.

She stared at him, haughty as a queen, before she deigned to answer; "I do. And I know she will help you."

"Great!" he said, surprised and pleased, but she cut him off before his enthusiasm grew.

"You must understand this will not undo all you have done. My daughter has lived with the fear of condemnation her entire life, and you became her worst nightmare. You may have changed now but it does not undo the damage you have wrought." She took a steadying breath then added in a gentler tone; "Learn from this as your father cannot and let it shape you into a better man. Being different is not wrong."

Arthur had no response. Anything from his lips would sounds like little more than pretty words, and he hated acting like a politician. He was a warrior too, and actions were where he best expressed himself. He just had to reach the point where his actions actually caused some good.

Thankfully, Hunith didn't seem to expect a response, as she continued after a pause, "I will tell you the path to where she dwells, but understand she is not a citizen of Camelot and she does not obey social hierarchy. She operates under a code of personal honour and the debt her family owes Merlyn is what will gain her aid."

Arthur waved a dismissive hand. "As long as she can accomplish what must be done, I care little for politeness."

Hunith graced him with a small, satisfied smile. "Then there will be little trouble." She hesitated, then added, "There is someone you should see before you go."

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He was taken over the hill to the fields where people were dotted amongst the yellow and green, busy harvesting, but Hunith did not lead him into the grasses, turning instead, towards a small cluster of trees by a narrow river. There, a figure bent over a strange contraption attached to a harness, measuring lengths of metal.

"Tom!" Hunith called, drawing his attention, and the man rose to his full height, revealing features eerily familiar to Arthur.

"Hunith!" he called back with a beaming smile from his dark face, gaze shifting curiously to him and faltering in recognition. "S-sire!"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, knowing he knew the man but unsure exactly how.

"It's alright, Tom," assured Hunith, her tone mildly apologetic for the surprise. "He is not here as a prince."

Connections flared to life in Arthur's brain. "Tom?" he repeated incredulously. "Guinevere's father? Tom Smith?"

The man looked at him, smile uncertain, and Arthur realised it was true. "How do you still live?" he demanded, fingers twitching towards his belt even though his sword remained atop his steed tied outside Hunith's home. It was an instinctive reaction more than any urge to attack; the shock of a dead man's company causing him to seek reassurance in the simplest form available. "You were felled – I saw the blood on the blade with my own eyes!"

Tom glanced to Hunith, and the woman dipped her head in consent.

"Merlyn," he admitted with affection. "She found me bleeding out surrounded by guards, and still she used magic. I do not know what she did, but the last thing I remember before waking within the Physician's Chamber is the golden glow of her eyes."

"You were checked. There was no life in your body."

"Gwen told me I was frozen at the point before death, and Merlyn suffered for casting it. She healed me, even when it harmed her, and then she helped smuggle me out of Camelot." He shook his head, awe softening his features. "She is special. Half the population of Ealdor were sent here by Merlyn, saved from terrible fates and given new life."

Of course, it all came back to Merlyn. Who else would be so reckless and altruistic? Yet another miracle she'd worked without expecting rewards.

"I am sorry for the injustice my father served you," Arthur said, ashamed to be the son of the blinkered man. "And I am glad you did not pay the ultimate price."

"As I am every day, My Lord" Tom agreed with a shallow bow.

Hunith smiled at the older man kindly. "I will see the prince on his way then we can speak on the progress of the plough," she said, and Tom agreed, seeming to understand in hindsight why they had approached at all. He graced Arthur with one last respectful glance then turned back to his measurements. Arthur followed Hunith from the fields like a stray duckling, gazing at the improved buildings and roads and people as his mind churned over the depths of how exactly they had come to be.

Hunith didn't speak again until he was mounted and on the edge of clicking Hengroen into motion. Her hand lifted to rest gently on his leg, gaining his attention.

"Mistakes are a way of life, for they measure how we can grow. Not all mistakes are easy to fix, and some cannot ever be repaired. But that you are willing is half the battle won. Go in peace, Arthur Pendragon. Cure my daughter and grow from this mistake."

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"South along the border, within the county of Isgaard, just outside the village of Engerd. You will see a white oak; follow the path that lies beneath, and it will lead you where you need to go."

On the second night of Arthur's journey, he settled just off the small, spindly path leading from the ancient white oak and into the strange forest. He might have continued through the early evening if it wasn't for the fog rolling in, obscuring his sight enough to be dangerous in the unfamiliar land. Instead, he settled with Hengroen in a grassy, leafy patch beside a shallow brook, and chewed on a strip of jerky to sate his hunger before sleeping. A fire seemed unwise in such a perilous place as the border between two enemy kingdoms.

He was drifting off to the comforting sound of his horse chewing when another, less pleasant sound, reached his ears. He cracked an eyelid as his attention sharpened, unsure if he'd even heard correctly – but, no – Hengroen lifted his head and pricked his ears, there was definitely something.

Another cry sounded, louder and pained, and Arthur scrambled upright, grabbing his sword as he marched off into the fog.

The cloud was thick, cloaking the world beyond his outstretched hand and muffling sound until it seemed the leaves and twigs cracking underfoot were buried beneath a blanket. He tried to step lightly, with a hunter's prowl, but he struggled to see his path, wisps of mist flicking up to curl about his knees like water lapping at his legs. Shadows of trunks loomed like ghosts out of the grey, watching his path like sentinels from another realm.

Slowly, he unsheathed his sword, and the burnished blade glinted in the low light with a reassuring presence. Another cry reached him, this one muffled as if by a hand, and he jogged in the direction with determination, finding the fog lightened the closer he drew.

A scuffle was clearly heard, an odd rattle as if of metal and a frustrated grunt, before he skimmed around a tree and found a beefy figure crouched within a large, wheeled cage, using his weight to hold down another, slighter body.

It was clear the intent, the man's belt clinking with looseness while one of the woman's legs was hitched at his waist, but it was also obvious it was not consensual. The woman was struggling fiercely, twisting and writhing in a way very definitely not of pleasure. The hand clamped over her mouth and the shackle binding one wrist also gave it away.

"Halt!" he shouted, startling the man enough he leapt backwards, twisting to face Arthur. The prince was relieved to see, though his belt was uncinched, his ties were not yet completely loosened. The woman had not yet been raped.

"Who are you?" the man growled, meaty hands hastily fixing his belt. He was not tall nor obviously muscular, but his bulk was solid.

Arthur glanced towards the woman and found her curled into the far corner of the cage, tattered red dress doing little for modesty or warmth. She was shaking, face turned into a shoulder and concealed by matted brown hair.

"What right have you to cage this woman? To attack her thus?"

"She's a druid," he grunted as if it explained his debased acts.

"That does not give you leave to assault her unprovoked," he snarled.

"What does it matter?" he scoffed. "She'll be dead soon anyway."

"Camelot has lowered its standard on the offerings for druids," he warned, and the man wheezed a laugh.

"Tír-Mòr offers a more than reasonable price for the effort it will be to cart her the distance."

Arthur gritted his teeth, frustrated at the situation. "What ill has she done you?" he demanded. "Druids are peaceful; she does no harm living in this world."

He shrugged, uncaring. "Gold is gold," he said, but leaned closer as if to impart a secret. "And word has it she's cursed anyway. Be doing everyone a favour turning her over."

Arthur shook his head, unable to abide this course. He jutted his chin in stubbornness and said, "Release her, and be on your way."

"Or what?" the man demanded, expression twisting in challenge. His hand moved to where his sword was still tied to his belt.

"Or I show you what it feels like to be pricked with something unpleasant."

An ugly leer split the man's face, and he drew his weapon with a sense of anticipation. Arthur stepped into guard position, resettling his grip upon the hilt.

"So be it," he bit out.

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The keys rattled on the ring as Arthur flicked through them to find one to fit the shackle around her wrist. The girl – for she looked barely a woman – had watched the fight with wide, terrified eyes, but now he had emerged the victor, she had withdrawn once more, avoiding his eyes like he carried within them the plague.

"Ah-ha," he said, as he found one the right design and carefully leaned forward to push the key into the lock.

The girl didn't move beyond pushing her spine into the bars, muscles trembling with fear at his nearness. He couldn't blame her; who knew how long she'd been with that scum, fighting off his advances even knowing she was unable to flee.

There was a satisfying click and he immediately stepped back, hands up nonthreateningly. The girl wasted no time in throwing off the crude metal piece and rubbed her wrist where it had chafed.

"My name is Arthur," he introduced now they were on more even footing. He made sure to keep space between him and the open door of the cage, not wanting her to feel trapped.

She glanced at him when he spoke but refused to give voice in return. He took no offense, focusing more on the shivers wracking her frame seeming now for cold more than shock.

"Here," he said, shrugging off his favourite travel coat and holding it out before reconsidering and stepping closer to place it atop the cage floor. "You have more need of it than I. There's another at my camp." He noticed she had no shoes but had no solution for that issue. He could only be glad summer had come.

She eyed him, then the coat, warily before she edged forward and slowly picked it up. She seemed ready for him to react, so he made sure to remain perfectly still, pasting an encouraging smile upon his face instead of spitting on the body of the bounty hunter as he wanted.

When she wrapped the piece around her shoulders, sinking into the prewarmed material, he dubbed it progress.

"Do you…" He struggled to phrase it without sounding opportunistic, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "I have food and blankets with my horse. It is not far – and, perhaps something for your feet?"

She watched him without responding and he hesitated, unsure what to do. He took a step back in an attempt to encourage her forth, and it seemed to work. The girl edged into the space he'd left, bare feet reaching for the leafy ground with all the caution of an untamed horse. He smiled, relieved, but then her head twitched, as if hearing sounds he couldn't perceive. He paused, mouth open to question when she cast him an apologetic glance and took off into the mist.

"Hey – wait!" he cried, jumping forward with an arm outstretched, too far away to make any difference. "Wait!" he shouted, but she vanished with naught but a twirl of disturbed mist in her wake.

He groaned in annoyance and prepared to give chase before changing his mind and sighing in resignation. It would be useless to hunt her through the fog, and only end with him lost. He had no ties to the girl save his coat, and if she didn't want to remain in his presence, he wouldn't force it. She'd had too much of people forcing things upon her tonight.

Still… it was his favourite coat.

"You're welcome!" he shouted into the night, throwing out his arms.

Predictably, there was no response.

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Heavy breathing was the first thing Morgana noticed. Heavy breathing interspersed with hums, and moans, and wet kisses.

She glanced at her surroundings but only a few arbitrary items stood out amongst the blur: Arthur's high-backed chair pushed at an angle away from his table. On the floor, a blue-feathered writing quill had been abandoned. And beside Arthur's four-poster bed, a discarded red and purple work dress puddled on the floor.

Morgana's eyes were drawn up onto the mattress where two figures were intertwined atop the covers, not yet naked but well on the way. They stood in vivid focus against the murky backdrop of the room, bright figures keeping her attention despite her wish to look away.

She watched the man's hand slide up the woman's bent leg, her white underdress slithering up with his touch until he was at her hip, fingers splayed against the soft flesh of her rump. She wore no pantaloons and she rose up in eagerness at his caress, grinding against the body between her legs. He surged closer in response, trousers preventing him from joining even if it was obvious he was ready, knees and elbow digging into the sheets to alleviate the worst of his weight.

The woman's fingers slid up the man's bare back, his muscles rippling under her touch, and buried them in his hair, tugging the sandy strands as she urged him closer. His grip on her hip moved inwards and he shifted himself enough to reach between them. The woman released a breathy whine as his fingers grazed over her centre and her hips rocked into his palm.

There were whispered words Morgana couldn't hear, her ears crackling with white noise, but she watched as the woman's face turned away from the neck of her partner, baring her pleasured expression to the world. Morgana was hit by a wave of familiarity, though she couldn't place it.

She knew this woman.

She was young, younger than Morgana, her moon-pale skin only now losing the plumpness of youth. Her messy black hair splayed across the white pillowcase in a starburst, probably passing her shoulders in length were she standing. She had pleasant features; high cheekbones, cupid-bow lips, straight, white teeth, and large eyes with naturally shaped eyebrows. This was no hag, and Morgana knew she knew her.

One of the woman's hands slid back down the man's back, nails leaving light red marks as they scratched down his skin until she reached his clothed backside, squeezing it tightly as her muscular leg lifted to cradle him deeper, climbing towards euphoria. He tilted his head and met her throat with his lips, drawing his teeth across the sensitive skin in a way that had her baring her neck for more.

Her brows creased further, mouth begging as the man's hand worked dedicatedly between her thighs, matching her thrust for thrust until her movements started to stutter and her pinched expression smoothed into ecstasy.

And, abruptly, Morgana recognised the wench, gut swooping in horror as Merlyn's eyes snapped opened with a golden flash. She looked directly at Morgana, and her kiss-swollen lips pulled up in a lazy smile.

The highborn woke screaming.

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Merlyn wandered the castle corridors idly, enjoying the sensation of her fingers running over the rough stone of the walls. The morning was crisp but the sun warm, though it had yet to heat the cool corridors. Gaius was still asleep, Merlyn having snuck out in the early hours in desperation for some time alone.

It was nice to be so cherished, nice to be valued enough to be worried over as she was, but it grew smothering rather quickly. The slackened reins she'd been given after the smelling salts proved effective had been stripped away, leaving her fighting for freedom. She understood; she understood and empathised, but she needed a little bit of privacy so she didn't lose her mind.

And so, after an entire day of being stifled, Merlyn was taking a moment for herself, meandering up a lesser-used, spiral staircase in her search for solitude.

However, as she stepped from the shadowed alcove onto the upper level, a hand suddenly clamped on her arm and jerked her around, causing the black-haired girl to stagger in surprise.

"What are you…" her indignant cry tapered when she locked eyes with a grim Morgana. The noblewoman looked frazzled despite her neat appearance, her green eyes darting up and down the corridor suspiciously. Concern bled into Merlyn's thoughts, and she asked, "Are you alright, Morgana?"

The highborn's gaze snapped to Merlyn's and her lips turned down in unhappiness. Bluntly, she asked, "Are you having sex with Arthur?"

Merlyn choked on saliva, her sharp intake dragging spittle into her lungs, and she bent double as coughs overtook her frame. What? What the… "S-s – with Arthur? What are you talking about?" she squeaked once she could speak, utterly gobsmacked by her crass question. "Why would you ask me that?"

"I saw you," Morgana said with emphasis; with conviction. "I saw you two in Arthur's room – on Arthur's bed. That dress –" she pointed, and Merlyn looked down at her outfit, at the new dress Gwen had pushed her into purchasing. It was a little more elaborate than her usual gear, but her friend had ignored her justifications and pushed the article onto her anyway. Merlyn had been too touched to resist overly much, the red and purple design modest but beautifully elegant for a work dress.

"That dress was beside the bed," Morgana continued reproachfully. "You had been wearing it and he'd taken it off you before… before –"

Merlyn blushed bright red, imagining what she wasn't saying, even if she was innocent of the accusations. Nevertheless, Morgana took her reddened cheeks as an answer and recoiled in disgust.

"How could you –" She struggled to find the words; coherency stolen by horror. "He forced you to bear that thing – that abomination! He made you change who you were. How could you let him use you like that?"

Merlyn drew back at her revulsion, the attack unexpected and unprovoked. But she rallied quickly as annoyance took hold. Who did Morgana think she was, barging back into Merlyn's life after shutting her out only to blast her with unjustified attitude?

"What I do – and with whom I do it – is none of your business," she began frostily, folding her arms defensively in front. "You are the one who said you didn't want to be friends any longer."

Morgana bristled at her tone, perfectly shaped eyebrows pulling together in anger. "So you let Arthur take your dignity? You let him use your body like a-a harlot!"

Merlyn gaped, utterly offended. "Is that what you think of me? Is that what you think of Arthur? He would never use anyone like that!"

"Then we are both mistaken because I saw you two. And his actions were not chaste!"

"Is it so hard to believe that perhaps he cares for me?" Merlyn demanded, miffed and insulted she refused to think it an option.

Morgana scoffed, and Merlyn glowered. "Arthur is just like his father; he cares only for himself! He forced you to chain what made you special –" her eyes darted to Merlyn's arm and caught sight of the bandages. Her brows pinched together as her tirade was derailed. "What –" Her hand darted out like a snake and dragged her limb up to inspect it. "What happened?"

Merlyn tried to pull her arm free but the noblewoman's vice-like grip had her hissing in pain instead. "Nothing!" she growled, grabbing her fingers. "Leave it."

But the noblewoman would not be dissuaded. "You have lived in a haze for too long. Show me what ill he has done now."

"He has done nothing!" Merlyn shouted, prying Morgana's thumb away from her arm and twisting her limb free, cradling it to her chest as it throbbed. "You, on the other hand, are letting your temper control your actions."

Morgana laughed – a nasty cackle empty of humour. "My temper," she bit out. "Is because you frustrate me! You denied what you are, folded to a man's wishes because your heart cries for him. You let him beat you down and strip you of your identity, all so he can continue living with blinders when it is you who is supposed to relieve him of them! I am angry because you gave me hope, and a story, and a dream to chase, and then you shattered them all without remorse!"

"I made a mistake, Morgana!" Merlyn exclaimed, eyes hot with shame. Her voice wavered as she continued; "I made a mistake in creating the Cuff. I was scared, and cornered, and I wasn't thinking clearly. I ignored all reason being given to me – dismissing them because I believed I knew best – and now… and now I am to die because of it."

It was the first time she had said it aloud, and it sent a jolt of anxiety up her spine. Because she knew what was happening, she understood the barely concealed grief living in Gaius' old eyes, in the broken smiles Gwen pasted upon her lips, in the heavy silence of Lancelot's company. Merlyn might be feeling near normal right now, but within a handful of hours, she could be as feeble as an old maid, bedbound and unconscious. She could feel her strength sapping constantly; her mind slowly being consumed by a grey fog, thoughts stuttering until the words spoken to her sounded like gibberish. The burning ebbed and swelled like waves in the ocean, drawing away only to rise and wash over her anew. And she was so tired of being in pain. So tired of fighting to be aware. Just… tired.

"What do you mean?" Morgana demanded, snapping Merlyn back to the present. She met the noblewoman's sea-green gaze and read the alarm in her expression, groaning internally at her blurted admission. She just had to make things worse, didn't she?

"It's nothing," she murmured, sighing as a headache started to build in her temples from her outburst. "I am simply upset."

"Do not patronise me, Merlyn," the highborn snapped. "I've had enough of that from you. Tell the truth for once."

Anger spiked at the condemnation and Merlyn retorted, "Last time I told you the truth, you turned your back on our friendship." She threw out her good hand in frustration. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? Because I am – but my failure to keep my promise does not give you leave to act as you are! Where is the woman who would fight the King for the rights of the common people? It seems all you do now is stir trouble for the sake of causing strife!"

"And it shows just how little you know!" the highborn countered, drawing herself up proudly. "I'm doing what needs to be done to free this kingdom from tyranny. Soon, the pieces will be in place and Uther will be forced to bow to the very forces he tried to eradicate. I am helping Albion become reality because you have not fulfilled your role."

Alarms tolled in Merlyn's mind at her words. "What do you mean, the pieces will soon be in place?"

Morgana seemed to realise she'd overshared, panic flashing across her aristocratic features even as she lifted her chin rebelliously. "The people will not stand for his reign to continue forever. Eventually, they will fight back."

"Morgana," Merlyn interrupted, ignoring her attempt to deflect. "Does this have anything to do with Morgause? Is she planning an attack?"

The highborn said nothing, lips pressed together in stubbornness, but her silence was enough of an answer. Merlyn stared at her in disbelief. "Do you not care for Camelot at all?" she demanded. "Think of the people who will be harmed if the city comes under attack!"

"I am doing what must be done!" she burst out, obviously unable to hold her tongue against the accusations. "I am doing what I can while trapped in this place – what I need so magic is no longer condemned. What of you, Merlyn? What are you doing to help our people?"

"Albion cannot be built on blood and betrayal, Morgana! It must be a place borne from peace and alliances or it will crumble before it is formed."

"You are wrong," the woman said firmly. "I trust in Morgause. She does not plan for revenge. She wants our people to be free, and she is willing to make the hard choices. Which is more than you, spreading your legs for a prince who condemns us."

Merlyn flinched at her vulgarity, cheeks hot with the crudeness of her speech. Even if her accusations were not true, Merlyn couldn't say that she had not imagined – that the idea did not appeal to her – but Arthur was not the man Morgana was painting him to be. He had grown past his ignorance and arrogance – reluctantly perhaps, but he was not his father. Not on any day of the week. And loving him was not a mistake.

"You are letting your emotions cloud your judgement," Merlyn growled darkly. "You are supposed to be better than the King, but you are becoming just like him – bitter and filled with hate."

Morgana beautiful features twisted dementedly, and she shrieked, "I am nothing like him! He is cruel and merciless! How dare you liken me to that-that monster!"

Merlyn took a step back at the intensity of her anger, shocked at the outburst. Words failed her momentarily and Morgana took advantage, lowering her voice into a heated hiss.

"You have no right to judge me when it is you who failed your task. You idle in your magicless state while innumerable people suffer around you, content to serve those who take what they want with no regard for those around them. I will not live in secrecy and fear for the rest of my days. My kin and I deserve to be free."

"Freedom should not cost lives; it should save lives."

"And it will," Morgana said decidedly. "Of those who deserve it."

"And you would be the one who determines such, will you?"

Morgana lifted her chin once more. "If I must."

Merlyn clenched her teeth together, head hurting and heart aching. Was this it? Was this Morgana's path chosen? The prophecy depicted Morgana's descent into darkness, but it had seemed impossible a year ago. Yet life had a way of twisting good judgement; fear and anger and uncertainty springing up like weeds among the flowers. Things she hadn't thought possible became truth, and a divide grew between her and those she cared about. The Pendragon family seemed cursed with lies and secrecy, and it all stemmed back to King Uther and his inability to bear responsibility for his mistakes.

That man would never know the scope of damage he had caused, but his children were suffering the repercussions without mercy.

"This is not the way to make people see magic as a force for good, Morgana. Drawing a line in the sand will do nothing but force good men to war. Change takes time."

"It does," the woman agreed, glowering at the black-haired girl. "But change also requires choice, and you made yours. Now, I am making mine."

Merlyn's eyes closed as grief rose in her throat like vomit. "I have to tell Arthur," she whispered, the thought of breaking such news to him stabbing deep into her soul.

"He will not believe you," Morgana snapped, the hitch in her breath belying her bold statement.

Merlyn's courage bolstered at her fear even as anxiety twitched under her skin.

"He'll believe me enough to watch you closely. Your plans will be ruined."

The highborn set her jaw, inhales increasing in distress. "Then I'll have to stop you," she declared and the two stared at each other in stalemate. Saying it was one thing; acting on it… Would Morgana truly attack her?

"I will fight you if you make me," the black-haired girl asserted, needing to say it – silently begging the noblewoman to take the warning and withdraw.

But she did not.

"So be it," Morgana promised.

Merlyn bit her lip but took a cautious step back, the very air vibrating with tension. Morgana watched but did not react.

"You can still choose a different path," the black-haired girl pleaded.

"I can," the green-eyed noble agreed with finality. "But I do not want to."

And she lunged forward to snag Merlyn's good wrist.

The black-haired girl twisted out of her grip before she could firm it and shoved her away, running down the corridor as Morgana stumbled. If she could just get to Gaius –

A blast of air hit her back and she fell forward onto her knees, letting out a cry as they cracked against the stone floor. She tried to scramble up but her slippered feet tangled in the hem of her dress and pulled her down again. A hand grabbed her shoulder before she could wrench the dress free and dragged her back into the shadows of the alcove.

What was Morgana going to do – push her down the stairs?

Panicking, Merlyn lashed out with her good hand, punching Morgana's shin and knocking her aside enough to roll and kick out with both legs. The highborn fell back with a surprised grunt, feet tangling with the train of her sheer overlay. Her arms pinwheeled as the fabric pulled taut and her tall frame was left unbalanced. She took a step back to reorientate herself but didn't realise how close to the spiral staircase she was until her foot fell through the air. Her eyes widened in terror as the rest of her body arced through space, hands grasping at nothing as she descended beyond the landing and out of Merlyn's sight.

The black-haired girl could do little more than choke on a breath as she listened to the sickening crunches of flesh against stone, frozen in horror and unable to move, even as her mind screamed to do something.

And then silence ruled and, somehow, that was worse.

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TBC...

Phew! The end of 2023 was a real doozy in my part of the world I'm tellin ya. Too much went on to even cover but suffice to say the elements were working in tandem to really end the year with a bang.

All homes and pets and friends accounted for so can't complain like others can.

Let me know what you think of Morgana. She's really sharpening her claws now. And, uh... what did ya think about the little x-rated segment lol? I'm not a smut writer, and I have no plans to be, but a visual is sometimes necessary to understand the scene.

P.S kudos to anyone who can pick the guest appearance .