Chapter Text
It was cold. The first thing that Morgana was aware of was the cold, followed closely by the tingling pain in her fingers, then an ache in her lower back. She frowned; had she fallen asleep at the scrying bench again? Lately, she’d been putting in long hours at her bench, peering into the depths of the bowl until her neck ached and her back was stiff. Why hasn’t Morgause … it was an automatic thought, a reflex that time hadn’t been able to dull. The realization came seconds later, as it always did, a blow she never managed to expect.
Morgause was gone.
Her sister would never wake her at the scrying bench again. Those wild brown eyes would never again soften with affection even as she chided ‘Sister, you have to learn how to pace yourself.’ Morguase would never do anything again. Morgause was dead.
Morgana had killed her.
‘There is nothing left for me here, now.’
No. No… Arthur had killed her. Just as Uther had robbed her of her sister for so long, so too had his son, heir of his father’s sins, caused Morgause to be lost to her once again.
Was there no end to what the Pendragons would take ?
Morgana opened her eyes, wincing when the weak sunlight made them sting and water. Her body was sore, her tingling fingers were numb and stiff, but she pushed herself into a sitting position. The simple movement sent her temples throbbing, and the pain fed her anger; she was alone, in pain, isolated from the place that should have been her home, betrayed by the people who claimed they were her friends.
A wave of vertigo caused her to lean to the side, and she gasped when she bumped into a stone wall. Morgana blinked to clear the haze and saw that she was alone, in a small, circular, stone-built room. The hearth was cold, and the stones that formed the window had begun to collapse, allowing only a partial view of the sky. She had no memory of coming to this place. No memory of how she’d come to be in pain and alone. What had happened?
‘Please sister.’ The knife was cold in her hands, but Morgause’s eyes were warm. Pleading. It was so wrong, and so, so inevitable.
Heedless of the state of her body, Morgana pushed herself to standing and immediately staggered. She clenched her eyes shut again, trying to rub focus back into her mind with her clumsy hands. The dizziness faded by degrees– and as it receded the last few days came crashing back to fill the space; Merlin . She’d sent Merlin into Camelot, the Fomorroh in his neck. The look in his eyes as she’d explained what he was going to do, what she was going to make him do, was a balm to her bruised heart. He deserved to suffer. It was right, making him kill the one he held so dear, as she had been forced to do by them, by him . Magic required balance, after all, didn’t it? Why should its high priestess not demand the same? Was that not her right?
Morgana leaned heavily against the wall, studying the unfamiliar room. It could have been a ruin– one of the many small towers and defensible forts built along the edge of Camelot’s once wild eastern border, before Uther had established his kingdom. The structures had been thrown up in a time of desperate need, and long ago abandoned. It was the closest to safety Morgana could ask for within Camelot– no one would bother patrolling the ruins, as long as there was no sign of trouble to draw their attention. Who had brought her here? If she was still in Camelot, was Arthur dead? Hope, vicious and cold, pushed through the swimming confusion that made it so hard to focus.
But… no.
Arthur hadn’t died. She’d fought against another sorcerer– that was the reason she was in pain. The sense-memory of flying through the air, the battering ram of power striking her midbody and sending her crashing to the rocky ground was suddenly vivid. The ground had been unforgiving, making pain sing along her spine, shattering her thoughts on impact. The old man loomed out of the confusing tumble of memories. A long white beard, eyes glowing gold, a tidal wave of power… and something else in his eyes. Sadness? Frustration?
Regret . She had seen that look before. How could she ever forget?
‘Let my parting be my final gift to you.’ Morgause had looked at her with so much regret. Acceptance, surrender, but regret. Then Morgana had lifted the knife.
The memory was a wave, it threatened to wash her away. Morgause had looked at her with such faith, even as she’d raised the knife that would kill her. Her sister had regretted the way things had ended, but she hadn’t been afraid. Morgana had been; she’d been terrified, but Morgause’s acceptance had buoyed her, making it possible for her to do the awful, necessary thing.
Regret, acceptance, fear, faith. She’d seen all that before , hadn’t she? Before Morgause, before the magic, before the truth. Morgana had known someone who had looked at her with sacrifice in his eyes.
Morgana stopped, leaning against the wall with one hand, oblivious to the tears streaming down her cheeks. Regret . The old sorcerer who had attacked her– Emrys – he’d hesitated. The look on his weathered face made her guts twist.
‘Here, have some water. ’ he’d held out the waterskin, earnest, eyes full of pain, mouth set. She’d smiled at him, thinking how sweet he was being, thoughtful, if a little odd. Had she ever known him at all?
It was impossible, of course. Emrys didn’t sound the same, and he was old. She’d seen him several times now, fought him even. Surly she would have recognized… and yet… in a time of magic what did it matter what a man looked like? Hadn’t she herself seen Mary Collins’s face and voice worn by another woman? Then, of course, who could forget the troll? If Emrys was truly so powerful, why couldn’t he look like anything he wanted?
Once realized, the truth was startlingly simple. Achingly obvious. She had seen those eyes before. There was someone protecting Arthur. Protecting Uther . It had never made sense that Emrys would be helping Camelot... until now. Morgana didn’t feel the tears as they began to fall, her hands clenching to fists against the ruined stone wall.
How could it be that after all this time, after everything he’d done, she’d still managed to underestimate him? That simple, smiling face. Those guileless eyes. His apparent clumsiness… the perfect disguise for a traitor. The last high priestess crumpled, her unfeeling fingers scraping on stone as she wept.
Merlin .
-
Morgana delayed sending another summons to Agravaine– it was better that he not be aware of her realization just yet. When she finally did call him, It took him four days for him to finish the task she gave him and slip away. By the time he arrived, sweeping back his hood and blinking in surprise at the state of her little shelter, Morgana was ready.
“My lady,” he dipped his head in greeting, “I have brought what you requested, but I’m afraid it won’t be of much use to you in its current state.” Frowning at the jet-black bowl on the newly-acquired wooden table, Agravaine stepped carefully around the sigils she’d drawn on the floor. “Are you searching for someone? I thought you’d given up on Emrys for now.”
Morgana beckoned him closer, eyes gleaming gold. “I have found something far more interesting. Come, see.”
In the silvery surface of the bowl, the knights of Camelot lay sprawled in a dark room. A woman in a ragged dress bent over one of the figures, her face obscured by her hair. Agravaine sucked in a breath as Merlin strode into view, his stride swift and confident. “They are meant to be helping an outlying village with an illness.” He murmured, “Where is the prince?”
“Elsewhere.” Morgana replied, leaning over the bowl with hungry anticipation in her eyes, “Just as his manservant prefers. Watch.”
“I don’t understand—“ but no sooner had Agravaine spoken than Merlin was flying back against the wall. Agravaine shook his head, “The boy is a fool— he’s not a knight—“Before he could finish the thought, Merlin lifted his head and a fallen sword floated into the air and flew towards the woman. The blade struck true, hitting the woman squarely mid-body and sending her flying. The lord sucked in a breath; “ Magic .” What else could it be?
Morgana smiled a grim, satisfied smile. “Magic.”
–
Despite Uther’s best efforts, there were still some places in Camelot where the title high priestess opened doors. When this particular door swung open Morgana stepped up and stared down the bald man who had opened it, and now stood, filling the space, studying her with distrust. She lifted her chin, eyed him with cool confidence; “I am here to see the Catha.”
Grudgingly, the man stepped back and allowed her entry.
–
They found him collecting herbs. It was laughably easy to get within striking distance of the one who dared to wear the mighty title ‘Emrys’. A simple glamor fooled the guards and traders and travelers on the main road, and a small illusion let the small party slip away from the flow of traffic unseen. The two Druids followed silently in her wake, pulling the cart and frowning.
She’d used a basic locating spell to find him. No wards blocked her and she felt no touch of anyone keeping watch. Morgana was studying Merlin from the shadow of the treeline in minutes. He was close to the outer wall, studying the ground, totally alone and as oblivious as a child. Morgana nearly exposed herself laughing at the absurd sight of Camelot’s sorcerer– the only survivor of two decades of bloodshed and tyranny, the many rumored to be the most powerful sorcerer alive– bending to collect handfuls of feverfew into a basket. It was like sending letters with a cannon.
Morgana indulged herself, watching him from the shadows for a while– her cautious companions murmured to each other about the delay, but Morgana ignored them. They couldn’t see how delicious it was; they couldn’t picture Arthur’s face if only he knew. He’d have murdered Merlin instantly, of course, he was Uther’s dog, but if Arthur had somehow been able to see past his instinctive need for violence, what would Camelot’s First Knight think of letting such a valuable asset wander around outside of the protection of the citadel alone ? It was delightful.
Merlin was ignored. Neglected, even. As she had been. No, worse– they hadn’t raised Merlin. He had never been offered a home, protection, a place to belong. He was a servant. She was, for better or worse, Uther’s blood . She had been entitled to so much more.
It was unimportant. She was free now, and he would not have to endure the Pendragon’s neglect much longer.
When the little traitor bent over to collect yet another handful of plants, Morgana struck. There was no reason to hide her power– Camelot had killed all the competent mages who could’ve sensed her, after all. “ Ástríce! ” The bolt of power flew true, striking Merlin square in the back.
Or… it should have. Instead of knocking the man unconscious as intended, the spell hit something and bounced away. He had not audibly enchanted a spell, but the air around the manservant rippled like water as the shield deflected the attack– did he have a protector after all?
Morgana closed her eyes, letting her senses expand through the immediate area, searching for the sorcerer. She gasped when she felt the simmering well of power that had just opened right in front of her. Moments ago there had been nothing, now it was like a small chasm had opened in the earth, and magic, hot like magma, was bubbling through the crack. ‘ So, not just a sorcerer’ Arthur had a weapon right under his nose. Morgana shook her head at the stupidity, the irony, the sick humor of it all.
Behind her, the Catha’s murmuring grew louder and the tone had turned contemplative, excited. Morgana’s pulse began to pound. Merlin had unwittingly convinced them of her claims; “The answers I seek,” she hissed, “that man has them. We must take him.”
Merlin looked up, his gaze landing exactly where she was standing. ‘ Training’ was the first thought, the obvious answer to his sudden competence. Her hands curled into fists. He hid it well, but someone had trained him, taught him how to use his senses, how to hone in on an enemy. It was another blow, a shark shock to the heart. She had been alone, had suffered in confusion and fear because someone had chosen it should be so. Someone who had been willing to train Merlin, but not her.
It also meant Camelot had more than one traitor. It was a scintillating thought, and there was only one logical conclusion; Gaius .
Morgana had never been loved. Not in Camelot. Not for one moment since her mother died, not for one moment until Morgause found her.
And now, never again.
Her voice was flat, the words chipped from ice; “he only needs to live, don’t be gentle. We can’t risk alerting the guards.” Three against one, the servant didn’t stand a chance… of course, he was more powerful than expected, so Morgana felt more than justified in ensuring he was unconscious before they bundled him into the wagon.
Perhaps Merlin should have made a friend of her when he’d had the chance.
–
The cold crept in first, nipping at exposed skin and making his bloodless fingers numb. The pain in his arms was horribly familiar, and when Merlin opened his eyes a sick sense of deja vu rolled over him to see that he was, once again, dangling by his bound hands in an unknown room. He gulped in air, the awkward position and strain on his arms making it hard to get a full breath. When she spoke, he closed his eyes against the sudden, knee-jerk terror. Not again .
“I owe you an apology.” Morgana said, stepping into view. He wasn’t able to turn his head, but the corner of the table he could see and the discoloration on her hands told him she’d been working on something– a potion, this time? Merlin fought to keep his face blank; “For kidnapping me? Not accepted.”
“Oh, no.” Morgana smiled, and the real joy in her eyes was a sick echo of the girl he’d once known; “for underestimating you. Emrys.”
He flinched. He couldn’t help it, the name on her lips was a whole-body shock. She laughed, as delighted as a child on Yule. “My name is Merlin.” He said, but the certainty in her eyes made his head spin– it was like missing a step on the stairs; how could she know? He’d been careful, he’d been disguised !
Morgana was watching him, her eyes hungry and focused, but Merlin couldn’t maintain his facade. If she knew, who else knew? Agravaine was in Camelot at that very moment, twisting Uther around his finger. Arthur was unprotected, and if they knew that he was the source of the magic that had been thwarting them, Arthur was vulnerable. The thought was an icy needle of terror in his chest; Arthur, oblivious to the protection he’d lost, going on a hunting trip suggested by his uncle with only a handful of knights to accompany him, allowing a stranger to pour his wine, bring his breakfast, draw his bath, never considering what dangers may be lurking because Merlin hadn’t told him what was going on . Gaius, walking through the streets of the city alone, going to see new patients, collecting his ingredients blithely unaware that his secret was discovered. Both of them, unguarded, unexpecting… by the time Morgana struck, it would be too late for them to react. It would be his fault.
How long had he been unconscious?
Panic rose up inside him like acid, twisting his guts and squeezing his lungs like a vice. His magic sparked against his bones, begging for release, but he squashed it down. What if she was lying ? Could this be a trick? An illusion? The only advantage he had was surprise– he couldn’t waste it. But… what should he do ? He realized distantly that he was gasping for air, and the position of his arms had nothing to do with it.
Morgana’s face was suddenly very close to his, and her presence was no comfort at all. Her skin was cool as she traced a line down his cheek– was he crying? “Poor little Merlin,” she murmured, her voice painfully gentle, a mockery of sympathy; “the truth causes you so much pain, doesn't it? Like a little rat; the light is harsh I imagine, after so many years in the dark.”
“I– I didn’t–” he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t gather his scattered, frantic thoughts into words. She was wrong, this whole thing was wrong , but he couldn’t bring it into focus. The thrashing fury of his magic made it hard to concentrate; it was difficult to tell where his own thoughts stopped and the primal tempest of power began. Where was Gaius? Kilgharrah? His mother? Anyone ? There had been so many voices for so long, advising him, guiding him, telling him to wait, to stop, to think– now when he needed it most the steady flow of advice was cut off. The sudden loss was dizzying.
“Don’t worry,” Morgana murmured, gentle, “you won’t have to be a traitor much longer.”
She held it up so that he could see, but the small triangle of metal was meaningless to him. An arrowhead? Maybe? It was blackened with age, about the length of a man’s thumb. Merlin just shook his head.
Morgana leaned in until her lips brushed his ear, making him shudder, but he was trapped. “I’m not surprised,” she murmured, “many believe the Blade of Vortigern to be a myth… not unlike you, I suppose.” He felt her lips curve into a smile. “Even Uther didn’t really pay much attention to it, though It was rumored to be able to bring low any sorcerer. I suppose he didn’t see the value in a fragment.” Her laughter huffed against his ear. She traced the metal over his neck and Merlin gasped at the prickle of pain that followed the line of contact. The metal felt oily – it dripped with power that was dull, flat, lacking any of the spark he usually associated with magic. Instead it was thick, congealed, and icy cold. It was a kind of power he’d never encountered before, and the touch of it on his flesh made his breath catch and his skin crawl. Under the sound of Morgana’s breathing, harsh with excitement, he could just make out a thin sound– a whine? A scream? It was almost too high pitched to hear, and trying to focus on it made his head pound.
Morgana continued, apparently oblivious, “ he barely bothered to tuck away this fragment in his vaults.” She scoffed, “You’ve been causing quite a lot of trouble, you know. I was going to simply kill you– but that was before I realized who you were. I thought, since we’ve known each other for so long, it was more fitting to give you what you want.”
Merlin practically growled the words; “you don’t know the first thing about what I want.”
Morgana leaned back, derision on her face, and shook her head, “Ah, now, that’s just not true! I would think after so many years you’d have noticed you’re not the only one trading your dignity for a prince’s approval– especially living under the same roof as Gaius. You want Arthur’s approval. You want him to praise you, to value you above all others.” Merlin was already shaking his head, but Morgana just smiled, her eyes cold. “He will never accept you as a sorcerer, Merlin. Never. This is a mercy, really– perhaps you can earn your master’s favor once you have been relieved of your power.”
“I don’t have any power–” the denial was automatic, desperate.
Morgana’s lips twisted into a sneer. “At least fall with honor,” she spat, shaking back her dark hair and looking down her nose at him. For a moment she had all the haughtiness of a princess, despite the sparse setting. “We don’t have to be enemies, Morgana.” he said, far beyond wishing it were true, but helpless to say anything else. His heart seemed to be pounding in his head, his magic was a suffocating tide, but every time it touched the section of blade in her hand it slid away, like trying to hold a block of soap too tightly after it was already wet.
If he couldn’t disarm her, the only option was to attack directly and expose himself. He’d have to kill her.
Morgana sighed, an air of resignation about her as she studied the broken blade she held. “I suppose dignity at the last is too much to ask of a coward.”
Before Merlin could respond, she struck. The broken section of metal was razor-sharp; it sliced between his ribs so smoothly he almost didn’t feel it. For a moment they just stared at each other, Merlin confused, Morgana expectant. Then the pain exploded in his chest. It was a sucking, drowning sensation, one that stole his breath before he could scream.
The last thing he saw was her shocked face before the wave of agony crested and took him under.