Ripples on the Water
Arthur followed the narrow trail from the white oak once day broke upon his camp, and he found the sorceress within an hour – in fact, it appeared the woman was expecting his arrival. She was a striking figure, her long, blonde hair tumbling freely down her back while shorter curls bracketed a proud, shapely face. Grey-blue eyes were sharp with intelligence, and she moved like a warrior, though she insisted her teachings were based in healing.
"A druid saved my sister and I when we were set upon by bounty hunters many years ago," Aayla explained. "We lived among his clan until I was old enough to support us alone, and it was he who guided my learning."
"You are willing to risk discovery to help us," Arthur questioned, watching her guardedly. "Why?" He might be desperate, but he refused to be blind, particularly with one who held Merlyn's health in her hands.
The tall woman dipped her head in respect to his caution. "My sister was among those rounded up during one of Uther Pendragon's misbegotten cleansings several moons ago. She, herself, has no aptitude for sorcery, but someone must have learned of her history, or of her contact with me. She was to be executed without trial, but she was liberated from the dungeons on the eve of her demise, guided alongside a multitude of others to safety beyond the walls. I owe Merlyn everything for that night. How could I turn my back in her time of need – even if it means entering that poisonous place?"
Poisonous place. Arthur accepted her story, remembering the events she was describing (and his wrath at Merlyn for her actions), but those words – poisonous place – it stuck with him, niggling in the corner of his mind like a maggot.
Camelot was his home. It was where he felt safest. To know others saw it as toxic struck like a barb through his chest, deeper only because he could not fault it. Those who did not conform would see Camelot as a cesspool of intolerance. Uther Pendragon did not inspire unity in his rule.
It was one of the first things he vowed to change when he sat upon the throne.
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Morgana had bleeding on the brain and, unless something miraculous happened, she would be dead in days.
Merlyn hid in her room, curled up behind the closed door as she clutched her pounding head. Her leaking eyes were closed as the light arrowed straight through her retinas and into her skull, but she kept listening to the multitude of sobbing people just beyond the steps, letting the sounds of their grief be penance for her guilt.
Her mind sung out an apology, begging for a forgiveness that would remain unheard. This was her fault. She had caused this anguish. And she had no means for correcting it because she had no magic. She was useless, worthless, helpless. Pathetic.
A cool cloth was placed over the nape of her neck, and it was the different temperature to let her realise just how hot she felt. Sweat dribbled down her temples as easily as the tears from her eyes but she blinked them away to squint at Gwen crouching beside her, concern marring her tear-stained features.
"Are you alright?" she asked then huffed a wet, tremulous smile. "Silly question, let me rephrase – how can I help?"
Merlyn closed her eyes and hummed as the cool cloth eased some of the pressure throbbing in her head. "Revive Morgana?" she asked whimsically.
Gwen sighed, her shallow humour evaporating in the face of her words. "I would if I could," she whispered and brushed a gentle hand over Merlyn's lank hair.
"It was my fault," the black-haired girl blurted, unable to contain herself. She forced her red eyes open to stare pleadingly at her friend, begging for reprimand or forgiveness, she knew not. "Morgana and I were arguing – and then things were messy and I didn't mean to, but I knocked her away from me – I just wanted to get away but she wouldn't let me go – and she tripped on the hem of her dress. Neither of us realised the staircase was so close but she fell back and then she was gone. She was just… gone. I listened to her falling and I didn't try to stop it. I just listened."
"Shh," Gwen hushed, drawing her into a hug even though she was sweaty and crying and probably smelled. "This isn't your fault. If you could have done something, you would have, I know it with my whole heart."
"How can you believe that?" Merlyn asked, sounding like a child. Her hand slowly peeled from the side of her face and snuck out to clutch at Gwen's beautiful purple dress. She hoped the woman wouldn't mind her scrunching the fabric because she couldn't bring herself to ease her hold.
"I know you, Merlyn, and I know you would never let someone be harmed if you could do something to stop it. No matter if you were arguing with them or not. This was an accident – a t-terrible accident," her voice choked, and the woman tucked her face into Merlyn's hair, seeking comfort as much as giving it. Merlyn reached up and touched her arm, wishing she could do more. If she had her magic…
But was it not the crux of the situation? If she had her magic, none of this would be happening. She would not be hurting, Arthur would not be off wherever he had disappeared, and Morgana would not be trying to do what Merlyn had failed.
"I will contact the druids," Merlyn vowed. "If there is a way to heal her, they will know. This is not her ending, Gwen. I'll not let it be."
"Just rest for now," Gwen requested, moving away so she could touch the backs of her fingers to the black-haired girl's forehead. "You'll do no one any good if you do not care for yourself too."
Merlyn closed her eyes at her words, biting back a not-so-nice retort. It did not matter how much rest she had, she would only grow worse. But her friend did not deserve her temper, and anger was exhausting anyway, so she said nothing and let the older woman tug her to her feet and strip her of the accursed dress, tucking her into bed. Gwen smoothed over her sweaty face with a damp cloth and Merlyn surprised herself with how quickly she managed to drop into sleep, the world sliding away like a dripping watercolour painting the instant her head touched the pillow.
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Merlyn lingered in her room the next morning, not prepared to face the day but unable to continue sleeping. Instead, she sat by the door, listening to the King as he settled at Morgana's side, a sick masochistic part of her soaking in the guilt his grief caused.
She heard as Gaius returned, the main chamber door clicking shut before the quiet shuffles of the physician moved towards the medical bed and its occupant. Merlyn listened as the King and physician spoke, the low murmurs of their voices carrying enough in the quiet for her to hear their words.
But what they said had her blood boiling.
"Whatever it takes, Gaius, I don't care. You must save her."
"If I knew a way…"
"You are not understanding me. Cure her. I care not what remedy you use – in all these books, there must be something… something in the Old Religion?"
Gaius' stunned tone echoed the shock vibrating through Merlyn. What… was he truly suggesting…?
"Sorcery," said the King solemnly. "Yes."
A high-pitched whine grew in Merlyn's ears like a scream, drowning out all other noise as she assimilated the King demands. He wanted to use magic, the very magic he had banned, to save someone who was otherwise dead, when he had murdered people for simply mentioning the word.
He wanted to go against everything he stood for; everything he had built his kingdom upon, because he knew it could do what he wanted when nothing else would.
Just the same as he had done two decades ago with his infertile wife.
Merlyn clenched her fist and realised she was shaking with rage, head pounding with the force of her temper. How could he…? How dare he…?
She forced herself to take several controlled breaths when she felt her heart thumping in her throat, ready to force her stomach out of her mouth. If she could only rid herself of her indignation so easily. She couldn't – how could he just – just –
She couldn't even articulate herself she was so mad. He was a tyrant and a hypocrite! She'd defended him to his own son in the past! Dared to think his actions were out of fear and trauma not – not – she didn't know what! An inability to take the blame, or a hunger for power, or-or some other selfish, arrogant, twisted reason!
The ringing in Merlyn's ears eased as her shock settled firmly into rage and she listened as Uther admitted Morgana's true heritage.
"It was while Gorlois was away," he revealed to a reserved Gaius. "He was fighting in the Northern Plains. Her mother – Vivienne – grew lonely."
There was a long pause before the physician murmured, "I understand, Sire."
But Merlyn did not. Uther Pendragon had built his rule around Ygraine's death, placed her memory on a pedestal so high no other could measure up – not even his son. And to realise – very, very belatedly she admitted to herself – the King had cheated on his wife before her death, enough to bear a bastard child, jarred her comprehension enough as to be incompatible with her previous perception. He loved his wife enough to repress an entire society after her death, but not enough to stay monogamous while she lived. With hindsight as Merlyn's guide, his actions stank of guilt. And the fear of losing his authority.
The King seemed to realise he'd said too much and retreated after ensuring no one would learn of his revelation, ever conscious of security.
The moment the monarch was gone, Merlyn burst from her room, anger licking up her insides like flames. "He is a despicable creature!"
Gaius read the lack of surprise in her words and countenance, eyebrow raising with intrigue. "You already knew," he said, half question, half remark, and she nodded a little sheepishly.
"Nimueh, last year," she admitted. "She was trying to distract me. Morgana is the reason the Questing Beast appeared after so many years in hiding. She… she tried to kill the King. Her father. The blood betrayal awoke the creature. I've told no one. I… I knew not how to broach the topic and by then… Arthur's attitude had changed. Honestly, it slipped my mind. It truly changes nothing, as the King refuses to acknowledge her officially."
"If Morgana was ever to find out…" the physician trailed off, but the implication was clear. Morgana's attitude towards the King was visceral and intense; who knew how such a revelation would make her react. The highborn was more impulsive than Merlyn when it came to emotions.
"First, she must be healed," the black-haired girl decided, unwilling to entertain such thoughts when the memory of her plots with Morgause were so fresh in her mind. "We can deal with everything else afterwards."
Gaius conceded with a short nod before he urged her to the table. "Some food for you, I think. You hardly touched your breakfast."
Merlyn didn't have the heart to tell him that her stomach was a burning ball of knots. Anything down had a high risk of coming back up. But she didn't want to see the familiar hopelessness in his face this early in the day, so remained silent and let him handle her as he wished. She avoided looking towards the medical bed and its unmoving occupant.
Later, she decided. She'd sit with Morgana later.
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Merlyn slid into a semi-wakeful state of detachment the next morning, the grey-tone world failing to capture her attention. She refused food, as the idea of eating had her throat squeezing shut, and the tea Gaius had so thoughtfully prepared sat untouched on her bedside.
The day passed fitfully; she had vague recollections of people visiting; Gaius, Gwen, Lancelot. And threaded throughout, other, less common callers like Favian and Alys. They had spoken to her like she was whole, even while she rolled in and out like the tide, leaving parts of herself in the ether each time she returned.
She blinked, and it was midday. Another blink; afternoon. One more, and it was late evening, Gaius easing open her door with a candle held aloft, shadows playing across his tired features.
"Gaius?" she asked, voice no stronger than a whisper.
"Merlyn," he replied, the relief evident in his breathy tone. He padded closer, placing the candlestick on her bedside table before laying the back of his hand on Merlyn's forehead. "How do you feel?"
She frowned, confused and discombobulated. Was she ill?
"Gaius?" she repeated when she couldn't find the words to ask for more. Didn't truly know for what she was asking.
The physician paused, animation dulling in disappointment. "It's me, dear girl," he said sadly, leaning down to tuck in her blankets. "Are you thirsty, hungry, need to use the chamber pot?"
She… what? What was she?
"Sleepy," she decided, though it was not one of the options given. She closed her eyes, ready to drift off before she pushed them open again in alarm. She'd forgotten – "Goodnight," she rasped and immediately felt better. She closed her eyes again.
Distantly, she heard a soft chuff and her uncle murmured, "Sleep well," in return.
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She was no better as the sun rose, body unresponsive and heavy while her consciousness tethered to reality by the barest thread of awareness, drifting like a tattered flag in the wind. She existed between states, listening to the low rumble of life yonder but retaining no emotional context. She was a ghost within her flesh.
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It was late on the fourth day of Arthur's departure from Camelot when he finally returned. He knew his father would be furious with his unexplained absence, so he organised for Aayla to enter an hour or so after himself to not be caught in the crossfire. And he wanted to be by Merlyn's side when it came to light they had a solution.
However, all flew from his head when he was informed of the situation with Morgana, and he burst into the Physician's Chamber to see the evidence for himself.
He almost tripped when he caught sight of the pale, prone figure upon the medical bed, his stomach plummeting to his feet.
"Gaius," he rasped breathlessly, forcing his gaze away from Morgana to seek the physician within the room.
The old man was seated at the table, a bowl of stew before him. He had half-risen in alarm and, seeing Arthur's distress, he left the table completely and moved to his side.
"How did this happen, Gaius?" he asked softly, feeling raw at the unexpected event. "They said she fell down the stairs…"
The physician shared what he knew – which was, admittedly, little – but, apparently, Merlyn had been present.
"Is there any way to save her?" he asked, trying to contain his desperation. Arthur was reeling. For so long he'd focused solely on Merlyn; Merlyn's magic; Merlyn's mind; Merlyn's deterioration. Hearing Morgana was now sliding closer to death's door struck him like a bludgeon to the head.
How did this happen?
Gaius' features were grim and his eyes sympathetic. He shook his head slowly. "I suspect bleeding on the brain. Her skull has cracked from impact, and there is no way to tell the damage done underneath." He turned his gaze towards the prone noblewoman, sorrow heavy on his face. "She remains unconscious and weakening, which tells me there is injury I cannot reach."
Arthur's own eyes flicked to Morgana, his sister in all ways that mattered. He lowered his voice further out of habit; "Magic?" he asked.
"Perhaps," murmured Gaius. "But it would need to be a powerful sorcerer. Healing such an impairment will not be easy."
Relief eased the sickness in his belly, legs wobbling beneath him as hope bloomed new life.
"I have just the person," he revealed, a smile pulling up his lips at his good fortune. "And they should be here in a short while."
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While waiting for Aayla to arrive, Arthur learned Merlyn's state had deteriorated too, and his hope turned quickly to despair. They were so close! How were they to make it up a treacherous mountain path to the Cauldron of Arianrhod when she was so ill? She would die before they reached the lake.
"Please wake up, Merlyn," he whispered hoarsely, hunched on a stool by her bed. His elbows were on his knees, chin resting upon steepled thumbs. He stared at the ashen features of the unconscious girl with eyes so dry they burned.
The stresses of the past few months had worn on her body in a way he'd tried fiercely to ignore. Her naturally slender frame was now bony, the gentle curves giving way to hard angles, the lingering plumpness of youth in her face had hollowed into sharp cheekbones and sunken sockets, her eyes shadowed by purple rings. Her lips were pale and chapped, adding to the ghostly pallor her already fair skin had bleached into.
He hadn't seen because he'd been afraid, but now he forced himself to accept the consequences.
"I am… so sorry," he whispered gravelly, eyes closing for a moment in grief before he forced them open again. He did not deserve the obscurity of darkness to hide her image.
"I was a coward," he admitted, knowing the past tense was a lie, as he was cowardly enough still to speak to a figure unable to hear. "I refused to listen – to see. I used you as an outlet for my fears and doubts like a gutless fool." He laughed humourlessly, hunching further as if to hide himself from the truth. "As a child, a coward was one of the worst things I could imagine to be. A man without a spine is not a man at all… But I know now there are worse things to become."
Emotions welled from the depths of his mind like a dam fracturing beneath pressure. Yet, from the cracks leaked not tears, but something hot and acidic and viscous, sucking at his thoughts like thick, sticky mud. It was prominently shame, boiling like heated bile in his gut, dragging behind it the regret of every forsaken 'what-if' and 'could-have-been' and 'should-have-done'. Every harmful choice he made bred self-loathing like blow flies within dead flesh, eggs hatching maggots to feast on the carnage of wrong decisions. He festered inside a pool of venomous juices, drowning beneath the guilt like a child unable to swim, almost unwilling to try. Let him be submerged, let him taste the poison of his reality, as payment for his crimes.
"'thur…"
The voice was barely a whisper, shared on a shallow breath from cracked lips. Arthur's breath hitched but Merlyn did not open her eyes, lids not so much as flickering with wakefulness. After a long pause, Arthur's hope waned, much like a wave drawing back to reveal the gravel beneath. What had he expected – her to awaken by the power of his voice?
How arrogant he still seemed to be.
"You must wake up, Merlyn," he uttered, desperately hoping she could hear. "Help is arriving, but we cannot do this without you. You must wake up."
But she slept on, oblivious.
There was a faint knock on the chamber door beyond the room, and Arthur cocked his head as he strained to hear more than indistinguishable murmurs.
"Arthur," called Gaius suddenly, and the prince straightened on instinct before drooping forward once more with a sigh.
He stared at Merlyn a moment longer before he finally forced himself to move, hands on his thighs as he pushed himself upwards.
"I refuse to give up," he told her. "If I must carry you there upon a sleigh, it will be done."
No response.
He lingered another second before driving himself from the room, leaving one woman unconscious to face another in the same position. This one, however… this one could be cured.
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Morgana was healing. The damage had been great, but Aayla truly was skilled in her craft. She admitted the damage was too much for her to heal at once, but the crafty woman worked around her limitations by curing the symptoms of the injury, thus, granting more time to work on the haemorrhage itself.
Watching her perform had been… strange for Arthur. Every fibre of his being told him her actions were wrong, she was a threat to Morgana, but he stayed his automatic response in favour of reason. His thoughts were merely an echo of a childhood nurtured by bias; his instincts little more than teachings reinforced with blinders. He needed to observe, to understand, before he could pass judgement.
And, honestly, seeing the sorceress in the midst of her art was somewhat inspiring. She was precise, but intuitive. Focused, but pensive; fingers dancing through the air above Morgana's body like a musician stroking a harp. It was beautiful, and he was humbled to be trusted enough to watch. He wondered how Merlyn looked when she touched upon the otherworldly power; would she be as absorbed as Aayla, brow furrowed in concentration, or would she inhale it like air, fluid within its influence like a dancer twirling to music.
When Aayla did her final check and declared Morgana healed, a summons was sent for the King, and the man wasted no time bursting through the door in a way reminiscent of his son. He took one look at Morgana's improved pallor and ease of breath, and thanked Gaius profusely.
And Arthur realised his father understood exactly what had happened to heal Morgana. And he would allow it because it achieved what he wanted.
Rage arose in a swift flame, igniting his insides with a burning pressure so intense, he thought he might breathe fire like a dragon. He barely suppressed the urge to throttle the man, so intense he could almost feel the flesh giving under his fists. But he stayed himself by the barest scrap of restraint, knowing if he made an issue, Uther would likely punish the sorcerer to make a point. Arthur had hidden Aayla within Merlyn's room so she would not be targeted, as he already knew not to trust his father to understand gratitude, nor could he trust him to value agreements.
If anything had been made freshly clear; it was Uther Pendragon was little more than a hypocrite and deceiver.
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Merlyn's consciousness flickered and sputtered like a dying candle. Whispers of awareness brushed her ears like the lips of a lover only to fade as she was dragged further under. She sunk like a stone dropped within a still, black lake, the depths pressing in until time and thought were meaningless. Each time she faded, a little deeper she fell.
Kilgarrah must have sensed her waning spark, for it was not long before he drove himself into her consciousness with all the finesse of a battering ram and roared at her to return.
She did so with a silent scream, wrist searing with flames. She arched upon her bed, writhing in desperation to escape the inferno within her flesh. But it eased swiftly, as the Dragon had been little more than a burst of static across her silent mind, withdrawing as quickly as he appeared.
Still, she panted with aftershock, arms and legs trembling at the strain they'd suffered after being stagnant so long. Goodness, she was thirsty. She smacked her lips together, tongue swollen and throat like sandpaper. She looked to her bedside table but there was no cup. She sighed.
"Are you alright?" an unfamiliar voice asked, a woman's but deep and husky. Merlyn shot upright in surprise, head pounding at the abrupt change in position. She blinked away black spots and stared at the blonde woman sitting on the floor beside her bed, very clearly having made her own camp on the ground.
"Who –" her throat burned with disuse, sound choking itself to death before it could reach above a wheeze. She tried coughing but that made her aching head throb and she held herself still to ride the worst of it.
"My name is Aayla," the woman introduced, keeping her volume low in consideration. "I am here at the behest of Arthur Pendragon. Let me fetch you some water."
Merlyn could do little more than nod in befuddlement, watching as the other woman rose to her full, impressive height and slip from the room. She returned quickly enough with Gaius on her heels, and the old man released a long breath at seeing her awake.
"Dear girl," he murmured, shoulders sagging in relief. "You are going to be the death of me."
He ambled over as Aayla offered a cup of water and Merlyn took it gratefully, throat instantly soothed by the cool liquid.
"How long was I asleep?" she rasped, almost fearing the reply.
"Nearly two days," Gaius murmured, sounding strained at the admission. Contrarily, Merlyn was relieved. With the strange woman present and her own body trembling like a newborn lamb, she feared it had been a week or more.
Oh gods –
"Morgana!" she lurched forward as if to leave the bed, but Gaius gripped her shoulder to stay her action.
"Lady Morgana is alright; awake and well," he assured. "Aayla, here, healed her."
Merlyn's eyes grazed over the broad-shouldered woman, but her mind was caught on the fact Morgana was awake. She turned back to the physician and asked tentatively, "Did… Has she said anything?"
Objectively, Merlyn knew she had done no wrong; it had been a terrible accident, brought on by defending oneself from attack – but Morgana was noble born, and it gave her a louder voice. Even Merlyn's status as Friend of Camelot was no match for the favour the King bestowed upon his illegitimate daughter. She would be executed before sunset if the woman so desired.
But Gaius seemed nonplussed by the question. "Not of anything in particular," he said. "She is relieved to be well again; absolutely insisted on returning to her rooms. Arthur is seeing her be settled."
She had a moment of fear Morgana would speak to Arthur, but rationality cooled her panic. Morgana would have said something immediately if she'd planned to retaliate publicly – and if she had other motives, Arthur would not be one she would turn to. The anger she held towards the prince had been loud and clear during their argument.
Instead, Merlyn refocused on the unknown woman, Aayla, her bold features tickling with familiarity, though Merlyn was sure they'd never met before. "You healed Morgana?" she asked, and Aayla dipped her head, looking tired.
"It was a grievous injury, but I arrived early enough to halt her voyage beyond the Veil."
"That is difficult magic to master," Merlyn complimented. "I still struggle with basic healing charms."
"I was fortunate to be taken in by a clan gifted in the art. Iseldir taught me everything I know."
"You are a druid?" asked Merlyn, surprised, but Aayla shook her head.
"Nay. I was taken in by Iseldir when I was young, and my sister and I were cared for until I grew old enough to take care of myself. You may remember my sister – Forridel. You saved her and many others from the wrath of the tyrant several moons ago."
"Forridel!" Merlyn breathed, the familiarity making sudden sense. "You and she appear much alike. How is she?"
"She is well; returned to Ealdor while I venture here to repay what I can of her debt. She would come herself, but she has no gift with the magical arts, and even less with the healing ones."
"I did not seek debt when I helped her escape," Merlyn argued. "Hearing she is well is reward enough."
"Yet, neither she nor I can stand by when there is something we can do to give you aid."
Confusion niggled at her insides. "What do you mean?" she asked. Something in the way she said it told Merlyn healing Morgana wasn't to what she was referring.
"Come, Merlyn," interrupted Gaius, patting her hand coaxingly. "You must eat to regain your strength, and then a bath, I think. It'll make you feel much better."
Merlyn's gaze returned to Aayla, but the woman merely dipped her head once more then retreated from the room, leaving the door wide for their exit. The black-haired girl turned suspicious eyes back to the physician, but the old man was busy hustling her upright. After a pause, Merlyn gave in and decided to interrogate him when she felt more put together; no point wasting needless energy when she was sure to find out the truth sooner or later.
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Arthur slipped inside Morgana's room as the last of the servants tending her were dismissed, Farah promising to return with a light meal. The quiet handmaiden curtsied to him as she ducked past, but his attention was stuck on the woman within the bed, a relieved smile breaking across his face. She smiled in response but there was something… calculated in the way she watched him.
"I am pleased to see you awake," Arthur said, moving to stand at the end of her bed and fiddling with the sheer hangings tied around a bedpost. "When I heard, I feared…" he trailed off and shook his head. He did not need to speak of his fears; Morgana was well again.
Her features softened at his silence and a gentle smile lifted her cheeks. "Well, you need not worry any longer. I am perfectly fine."
Arthur nodded, though he did not entirely agree. He tapped the wooden post as he hesitated but couldn't deny his curiosity. "Do… do you remember how you came to fall down the stairs?" he asked. "It was an unusual place to be venturing."
Morgana dropped her gaze to her lap, hands twisting idly in front. Something dark shadowed her features but she disguised it swiftly with a forced smile, meeting his eyes once more. He almost thought he imagined it. "It was an accident. Clumsy me not watching my feet." She laughed but it was very obviously false and died quickly. "It is over now; I can only be thankful it was not worse."
"Indeed," Arthur said neutrally, realising Morgana did not want to share. He wondered what exactly happened to have her so tight-lipped.
"I am truly tired," the noblewoman commented, the dismissal clear, and he bowed his head accommodatingly.
"Of course," he said. "I will leave you to recuperate."
He left the room distinctly unsatisfied, absolutely certain Morgana was withholding something important. But instead of pressing the weakened woman for answers, he went to the Physician's Chamber, hoping Aayla recovered her strength quickly. It was time to free the Dragon.
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Morgana was angry. No – she was livid, seething, outraged! She wanted to – to – to hurt something. To scream from the top of the parapet. To shake Uther and Arthur and Merlyn! Bloody Merlyn. That stupid, beguiled, foolish, lovestruck, insensible idiot of a girl! The liar. The deceiver.
Morgana wrote to Morgause in a shaky hand, too distraught to scribe with her usual penmanship, but needing to tell someone, to have someone join her wrath, to know of the injustices done to her.
Uther was her father.
Uther was her father, and he continued to deny any claim; preferred his lout of a son over his illegitimate daughter. His daughter who would make a better heir any day of the week.
And Merlyn had known! The wretched girl had known for gods knew how long and kept it quiet like a shameful secret; like Morgana didn't deserve to know her true heritage. Like the girl had any right to decide what the noblewoman should know!
It had her roiling with the urge to – to do something!
But Morgana had to know – she had to confront Merlyn and see the girl's reaction when she realised Morgana knew the truth. She wanted to know what she would do – plead ignorance? Cry for forgiveness? Defend her actions? She needed to know what sort of person Arthur had twisted the gullible girl into. And then she could plan her revenge.
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Merlyn was just returning from the bathhouse when a guard approached and explained the Lady Morgana had requested her presence within her chambers. He did not say why, and no suspicion lingered in his eyes, but her heart started thrumming like mad in her chest.
She hadn't told a soul of the argument between her and Morgana despite Gaius' gentle inquiries as she ate; firstly, still processing what had actually happened herself, and, secondly… simply hadn't wanted to believe Morgana's actions. Declaring something was one thing – actually following through was another. She hadn't… she didn't know what Morgana intended to do had Merlyn failed to fight her off, but knowing the woman was willing to do something shook her.
To now be forced to face her again, at such a disadvantage, was… was frightening. And it brought forth anger to know it had come to this point – that Merlyn feared the actions of the woman who was once her friend.
How had it come to this?
Merlyn took a deep breath and brushed down her faded blue work dress to shore her courage. Come what may, Merlyn would defend her own.
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Morgana was reclining upon her sun lounge when Merlyn entered, a goblet of wine in one hand and a lock of hair twirled around the fingers of the other. To anyone else, it would appear the woman was without a care; to Merlyn, it was a blatant smear of the memories they shared upon that seat.
"Merlyn," she greeted tightly but took a sip of her wine like they had all the time in the world.
"My Lady," the black-haired girl replied neutrally, refusing to give her an inch.
"Oh, come now," Morgana purred. "You've never used titles with me before."
Merlyn clenched her teeth but pushed out, "Before, we were friends."
Morgana's debonair façade fell away like stone, leaving her nostrils flared and sea-green eyes hard as jade. "Yes, we both know what a mistake that was."
And it seemed they were at the crux of the matter.
"Just because you and I are no longer close, it does not mean you need to turn to Morgause," Merlyn blurted, voice beseeching. "There are many others to turn to – such as the druids. Or any other sorcerer who doesn't wish for pain and chaos. Don't let Morgause's desire for power infect your judgement, Morgana."
The noblewoman laughed, high, and cold, and jarring. "It is much too late for you to try to push your own opinions upon me, Merlyn," she snarled, shoving from her reclined position and drawing up to her full height. "I know exactly what you are, selfish, hypocritical, dishonest wench!"
Merlyn recoiled at her attack before anger welled up, utterly done with her attitude. "Stop with the name-calling Morgana. I thought you were supposed to be highborn. Acting like a spoiled brat makes the crassest peasant seem cultured in comparison."
"Funny you should mention my lineage," the woman said lightly before her voice grew dark with accusation. "Considering you were keeping mine from me."
Merlyn's belly dropped into her feet, blood draining from her face and leaving her lightheaded. Morgana read her shock and smirked coldly. "Nothing to say?"
"How did you…?"
"I overheard," the woman explained, smirk morphing into a snarl. "I had to listen, unable to respond, to act. I listened as my father admitted to hiding me away like a dirty little secret. Then I hear you mention it like it was everyday knowledge – as if it was not news. How long have you known, Merlyn? How long did you keep this from me?"
What was Merlyn meant to say? I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I mostly forgot about it in light of ensuing events? Somehow, she didn't think it would diffuse the tension.
"I learned the truth after the Questing Beast poisoned Arthur," she divulged, deciding honesty couldn't hurt any more than secrets already had. And she, possibly, wanted to prod at Morgana's tender spots. "You are the reason it appeared in the first place. When you plotted to kill the King, you betrayed your own blood, and in doing so, summoned the beast from wherever it had hidden itself. Arthur was bitten because of his relation to you. He nearly died because you let your temper rule your decisions."
Morgana was pale, taken aback by the unexpected statement, but she swallowed and mustered her composure, jutting her chin at the younger girl. She sneered nastily. "Then it seems I failed twice over, for Camelot would be a safer place without the both of them."
Merlyn gaped. "You cannot think that," she breathed disbelievingly. "Even were you unrelated, you grew up alongside Arthur as a sibling. How can you condemn him to die so callously?"
"He is his father's son," scorned Morgana, strutting to the table where she carefully placed her goblet then turned to Merlyn and leant against the edge of the polished wood. "Hardly worth removing the sire when the child will be the same."
"Arthur is not the same as his father," Merlyn growled, and Morgana laughed humourlessly.
"I am ashamed to have once called you friend," she snorted. "I should be heir! I am a fairer ruler than Arthur, and I actually care about our people."
Merlyn scowled, protectiveness flaring at her flawed opinion. "Arthur is heir, and he will be a great king," she spat, and the noblewoman glowered. "Whether a prophecy predicts it or not."
"Your heart betrays you," she retorted, scraping together her airy demeanour though it was a thin disguise for her irritation. "You serve a man who would bind your magic yet use your body like a toy. You are nothing but a prostitute whose time is bought by loyalty."
"You know nothing of me or Arthur," Merlyn snapped, slashing a hand through the air in anger. She longed to send it across the highborn's cheek, but she held herself back by the barest threads of self-control. "He has earned the right to rule, and I will not let you steal it from him. You are nothing but an illegitimate child of an infidelity that brings Uther shame."
"Guards!" Morgana screamed, and Merlyn's breath hitched in fear. Two sentries threw open the door, pikes ready to attack, responding to the urgency in her voice.
"My Lady?" one asked promptly when no threat was discernible. Morgana cast an arm towards Merlyn, fury twisting her beautiful features into an ugly snarl.
"Remove this disgrace from my sight!" she ordered. "And let it be known she is banished from here forevermore. If I see her near my chambers, she, and the guards posted, will be shamed before the people. Do I make myself clear?"
"Er, yes, My Lady," they replied, and one reached out to touch Merlyn's arm. "Come on," he said, far more politely than the highborn obviously wanted.
Merlyn cast Morgana a stiff glare, but obediently retreated, marching from the room with all the swagger of an aristocrat. Morgana sneered at her back. She could only hope Morgause's plan was close to fruition because she was ready to spill some blood.
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Merlyn stormed through the castle corridors, huffing with emotion; anger, indignation and, – maddeningly – sorrow slashing her insides like a scythe. Her arms were shaking with the strain of her clenched fists, so tight she could feel nails biting into the skin of her unbandaged palm; her left wrist was stabbing in complaint. She couldn't – she couldn't even… she just –
Damn Morgana to the Fates! Merlyn snarled. Damn her and Morgause as well! How dare she accuse Merlyn of anything! What right did she have to cast blame when she was the one plotting treachery and betrayal? No right, that's what! None at all!
Morgana plotted to kill the King. She plotted to kill Arthur!
Oh, sweet gods, Morgana knew she could vie for the throne if both of them were no longer alive – and it meant Morgause knew also. Morgause, who was the real threat in this ploy. The cunning, conniving snake of a priestess!
She had to tell Gaius.
Merlyn stopped short.
She had to tell Arthur.
Dread and anxiety welled in her belly like a cracked spring, spilling acid into her insides. She put a hand on her aching tummy and tried to breathe through the bile rising in her throat.
Would Arthur believe her? Would he demand proof? Would he go to Morgana?
That could not happen. If push came to shove, Merlyn knew Morgana would act, but she could not say the same for Arthur. Shock and confusion would weigh his response, give too much time for Morgana to gain an advantage in attack. He needed to be prepared for her bitterness; to – to fortify himself against her betrayal before a confrontation.
No. Merlyn would go to Gaius and let him guide her to the right path. Arthur could live in peace for a little longer. At least until the extent of Morgana's duplicity was known. The highborn was bitter, angry, and hurt; perhaps, when it came time to act, she would realise just how steeped in darkness she was growing. Like the last time she had plotted to kill the King.
Merlyn shook her head at the thought, disturbed by the spiral in which they seemed to be caught. Around and around Morgana's bitterness flowed, being fed by time and knowledge until it was a cask of poison in her mind, fermenting on the words of a power-hungry priestess. Soon – very soon – it would be ripe for a sip and the whole kingdom would suffer the taste.
But Merlyn would do what needed to be done to protect Camelot and Arthur, even if it meant seeing Morgana as an enemy.
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Beloved Morgana,
Your news is most glorious and appropriate, for our time is at hand. Meet me tonight after sundown outside the castle gates. I will wait in the clearing two leagues from the city by the marked and distinctive carved oak. Until then, keep safe.
Your trusted,
Morgause.
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TBC...
So it seems Morgana's fate is sealing...
Let me know your thoughts :)
