Before the Sun Breaks Another Day -- Chapter Five
Title: Before the Sun Breaks Another Day
Authors: accordingtomel & adelagia
Summary: Three months after her disappearance, Morgana returns to Camelot with a hidden agenda, but she's not the only one keeping secrets, and a series of unintended revelations forces her, Merlin and Arthur on an intertwined journey of revenge, redemption and love.
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Leon/Morgana (elements of Uther/Morgana, Arthur/Gwen)
Rating: PG-13 (eventual NC-17)
Spoilers/Warnings: Everything up to and including 2x13
Word Count: 6,889
Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is being made. Please don't sue.
Authors' Note: Thanks so much to our lovely beta/Brit-picker ravenflight21.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun burned radiantly in the late afternoon, casting its light through the protection of the thick forest engulfing them, sky a rich blue save for the occasional dots of white, puffy clouds wisping across the sky. A light breeze whispered past them, kissing Merlin's cheeks and neck soothingly, touched pink from the unexpected warmth of the day. The forest abounded with life and activity around them all morning, leaves swaying in the wind, birds passing through, hooves padding against the rock and dirt. It was the first tolerable day they'd had since setting off from Camelot on this mission, but Merlin found it next to impossible to actually enjoy any of it.
To say that things had grown awkward between Merlin and Arthur after what'd happened that morning would be an understatement. In fact, awkward had long since packed its bags and fled the scene, making room for the arrival of its cousin, unbearable tension. Silence stretched on for miles, hanging heavy in the air with the weight of an implication neither was quite ready to acknowledge, let alone process. This morning's affairs had left both feeling uncomfortable and slightly on edge, the hows, whens and whys of the situation abandoned in favour of carrying on as if nothing had happened at all. Which, really, when Merlin thought about it (and he absolutely, positively had not), was true -- nothing had technically happened between them. Unless one counted waking to find oneself snuggled tight in the arms of another man, who just so happened to be not only a close friend but a royal prat, with the added bonus that both were painfully aroused. Then perhaps there was something more to be said of the situation. Except that Arthur, being his usual obstinate self, had simply refused to speak to Merlin for the last couple of hours unless absolutely necessary, in spite of Merlin's numerous attempts at engaging the prince in conversation.
He'd finally given up the valiant fight over an hour prior, accepting that Arthur apparently needed some time to sulk or process or erase the event from his memory, whichever he deemed the most valuable course of action. Which unfortunately left Merlin to his own debilitating thought processes.
The burden of decisions made in recent months hung heavily from his shoulders, weight amassing on his conscience and dragging him just a bit closer to the edge of what he could reasonably be expected to bear, each and every day that passed. For a few blessed weeks, things had finally started to look up for Merlin, as though the entire world was not his to protect, and would not bring about his end. But then fate had viciously decided that he'd had enough of a reprieve, returning Morgana to Camelot and forcing him to relive the disastrous consequences of his recent choices once again. Never mind the fact that he was still grieving for his father, in addition to carrying the burden of keeping his magic secret from those closest to him. To be confronted now with his feelings for Arthur -- feelings he had determinedly shut away once he'd learned of Arthur's affections for Gwen -- seemed like the straw that would break his back and lead to his ultimate undoing, if he let it.
But the thoughts refused to vacate his mind, prodding and poking at him until, helplessly, Merlin had no choice but to allow himself a brief moment to ruminate on it. When thinking back, Merlin couldn't quite identify the exact moment he fell in love with Arthur, but he remembered the circumstances under which the discovery slunk from the hidden recesses of his mind and implanted itself firmly into his brain. It had been a rather ordinary moment, or at least as ordinary as their lives managed to be on any given day. There had been no fanfare or sudden rush that knocked him off his feet, just a small conversation that had taken place in Arthur's chambers one quiet evening, as most evenings had been since their return from victory in Ealdor, with Merlin losing himself in contemplation and tired grief. He'd done his best to hide it; however much he had loved Will, he couldn't show it for fear of Arthur's derision, knowing what he thought of sorcery -- and of Will, who'd managed to be a complete and utter ass to Arthur the entire time, except for the part where he'd saved his life.
But Arthur had surprised him then, as he so often did with unexpected bursts of kindness, catching him by the shoulder while he'd been busy stoking the chamber fire.
I'm sorry, he'd said. About Will.
Merlin didn't remember what he'd said in reply, probably some stuttered thank you or, more likely, he’d just gawped at Arthur; but he did remember the searing warmth that had flooded his chest then, realising that even in the weeks after Will's death, Arthur had kept it in his thoughts, though he had no reason to. Just as he had no reason to bring it up, or to take any interest in Merlin's life whatsoever, or to share the loss that Merlin felt.
He died an honourable death, he'd said. And for that you should be proud of him.
There weren't any other words to remember after this, because Merlin had had no words to say. There had been the lump in his throat that he'd swallowed and the smile that had touched his face, and there had been Arthur, stretching his limbs as he'd climbed into bed, as though he hadn't just made a world of difference at all.
But that was Arthur, through and through, defying expectations so adroitly that it seemed nearly unremarkable. His Arthur.
A single, solitary thought had invaded his mind then, speaking softly, with a defined assurance: I am completely and helplessly in love with Arthur Pendragon. It was uncomplicated -- beautiful, even -- in its lucid simplicity, and Merlin found the discovery to be distinctly less shocking and decidedly more freeing than he would have expected. He'd never deluded himself into believing that Arthur would ever return his affections, but it was clear to him, at least, that Arthur cared about him. And it was enough; or at least that was what he made himself believe. Yet he supposed he'd always held out a little hope, tiny and infinitesimal but there all the same, that Arthur might one day love Merlin with the same reckless abandon with which he loved Arthur.
When Arthur had confessed his feelings for Gwen, it'd hurt, nicking his heart just enough to cut into him in a way that allowed the pain to bleed and never quite heal. But he'd plastered on an indulgent smile, moulding his features into bright approval, and encouraged Arthur in this endeavour in spite of his own heart. For her part, Gwen was a lovely, dear friend to Merlin; she was sweet and caring and just plain good, and Merlin loved her fiercely, would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. And if she was what made Arthur happy, then Merlin resolved that he would never get in the way of that, regardless of his own attachment to the prince.
Unfortunately, most of the time, Merlin's feelings for Arthur threatened to bubble to the surface no matter how hard he attempted to shove them into his subconscious, but this morning's events had left him flummoxed. He was not the least bit surprised at his own physical reaction to waking up wrapped tightly in Arthur's warm embrace; but what confused him was the fact that Arthur had been experiencing the same problem. There were a couple of possible explanations, but the most likely one seemed to be that he'd been dreaming about Gwen, had pulled Merlin into his arms thinking him to be her instead, and had been horrified upon waking to find not only Merlin curled up against him, but an impossibly hard Merlin lying across his chest. It was ridiculous and embarrassing, and suddenly Merlin thought that maybe it was for the best that Arthur wasn't speaking to him right now anyway. He had absolutely no way to explain away his erection and wasn't too keen on the idea of having his heart broken in addition to every other awful thing that'd happened in his life of late. Merlin inadvertently heaved out an embittered sigh, loud enough to be heard, but if Arthur noticed, he gave no outward indication.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Arthur's voice wrenched him from the mental fog he'd managed to wander into. "Merlin, watch out for that--"
But it was already too late. By the time Merlin reacted to the shock of actually hearing Arthur address him directly, he'd already ridden directly into the large, low-hanging branch of a tree. The branch slammed into Merlin's chest, and it knocked him backwards. Merlin's left foot caught in the stirrup, and for a moment he foolishly thought he might be able to regain his balance once more. That was until the horse decided at that very moment to rear up, completing the task of throwing him from the saddle, and Merlin went flying backwards, landing, hard, on the trail with an undignified grunt.
Before he could even process the pain, Merlin curled in on himself, writhing on the ground and gasping for the breath that had literally been knocked out of his lungs. One hand clutched desperately at his throat while the other fisted in his tunic, already feeling his face flush from the lack of air.
No more than a few seconds passed before he felt strong hands grasp his shoulders firmly, hauling him upright into a sitting position and pulling forward slightly. "Come on, Merlin, breathe. Just slow down and take one breath in, one breath out, just like that," Arthur encouraged, fingers digging ever so slightly into his shoulder blades. Merlin felt his eyelids slip shut and he focussed all his attention on following Arthur's instructions. After a few seconds of deliberate, concentrated breathing, air finally started to travel through his lungs once more, and he greedily gulped it back, not caring how ridiculous he might look. They remained there in silence for a couple of minutes until Merlin's breathing slowed to its normal pace, and he glanced up at Arthur for the first time since falling off the horse. As expected, his eyes held a typical air of exasperation. But Merlin also detected a hint of concern, masked by irritation, and he took hope in the idea that Arthur still cared about him at least, even if he wouldn't outwardly admit it.
"Are you all right?" Arthur asked finally, crouched down in front of Merlin, one hand still resting atop his shoulder.
Merlin considered the question. "I think so," he said.
"Good." Arthur nodded, removed his hand, and pushed himself into a standing posture. "Do you think you can stand?"
Merlin rolled his shoulders, shook each leg carefully, dug into the ground with the toe of his boot, then looked up at Arthur. "Yeah, I think I can handle that."
He placed a palm on the forest floor, preparing to brace himself to move into standing, when he noticed Arthur's proffered hand hovering in front of his face. Merlin stared at it in wonder.
"It's called a hand, Merlin," Arthur informed him, when he didn't immediately accept it. "Usually it works best if you grab onto it. I can then pull your clumsy, incompetent arse up off the ground so we can carry on our way. Unless you'd rather I leave you here and come back for you in a couple of days?"
"Prat," Merlin said, word tumbling easily past his lips, and he couldn't quite prevent the accompanying eye roll. But he reached out for Arthur's hand anyway, grasping his wrist and feeling oddly secure when Arthur's fingers curled around his forearm in response.
"Idiot," Arthur retorted with a shake of the head as he yanked Merlin to his feet. However, instead of the muted indifference he'd been exposed to all morning, Arthur's attempt at a chiding tone belied the underlying affection Merlin heard in the word, and it filled him with a sense of relief. Perhaps the early morning affair wouldn't ruin the rest of their time together after all.
Merlin dusted the dirt and sand from his trousers and carefully tested each leg, raising one off the ground and balancing on the other, then switched to the other side. He would be lying if he said his back and thighs weren't sore, and he rubbed absently at a particularly tender spot on his lower back, the scratchy material grating more than actually soothing the area, and he allowed his hand to drop limply back down at his side instead.
"So would you care to explain how you managed to ride directly into that colossal branch that clearly blocked our path? Again?" Arthur asked, reaching over for the reins to Merlin's horse and scratching the stallion's nose. Merlin supposed they were lucky the horse was somewhat accustomed to Merlin's antics and hadn't raced off in the opposite direction at the first opportunity. Without a shadow of a doubt, Merlin knew that he would never be able to share the same saddle as Arthur without revealing his true feelings for the man. However, knowing Arthur, he'd likely force Merlin to walk instead, and that idea was no more pleasant than the first.
"Erm... would you believe that I got distracted?" Merlin offered up lamely, throwing Arthur a demure smile for good measure as he accepted his horse's reins from Arthur's outstretched arm.
Arthur snorted, sounding every bit the arrogant dolt that he often chose to be, but he was also amused, and didn't even attempt to mask the fact. "When it comes to you, Merlin, I'm quite certain that I could believe just about anything."
And without another word, Arthur mounted his horse -- watched to ensure that Merlin had been able to do so as well, though Merlin doubted he'd ever admit to it -- and led them onwards through the forest once more.
Morgause tapped the tip of her sword against the ground repeatedly, as though it weighed no more than a twig. "Again," she said.
Morgana drew in a breath, and for the third time, parroted the instructions given her to bring about Uther's downfall. It was simple, really, twining the man around her finger; she'd only have to manifest the slavish dependence always expected of women at court, and whatever contradictions arose against her usual temperament could easily be explained away by the emotional turmoil she'd experienced in captivity.
"Good," Morgause said once Morgana had finished speaking. She moved the stones weighing down each corner of the map set in front of them and gave Morgana a swift glance, rolling the map up again; the parchment crackled underneath her fingers like the sputter of a dying fire. "And you know how to deal with Arthur."
"Yes," said Morgana, and hesitated. "You won't hurt him?"
"I have no quarrel with Arthur. He just needs to be distracted, that's all, if you're to succeed."
"Will you give me your word?"
Morgause nodded, humming her wordless affirmation, and resumed tapping her sword on the ground, the rough rhythm of metal on dirt like distant drumbeats of war.
*
Morgana stood at her window, her gaze settling upon the steady stream of activity in the courtyard -- guards making their rounds, merchants hauling in their daily deliveries, scullions haggling over the freshness of the wares. How quickly they'd all had to forget that the ground they trod had been stained countless times with the blood of their neighbours, the ash of their friends. Uther had transmuted his fear into hatred and turned his prejudice into a coward's game, making death a public spectacle at his own front doors to keep the masses endlessly afraid. Once upon a time she, too, had believed Uther was the law, never to be crossed, but now she knew better. She would free them all.
Time, however, wasn't entirely on her side. There was only so long Arthur could be expected to stay away from Camelot, and though she had made good progress with Uther, the days were going by quickly and she still had much to put in place before Arthur came back. Morgana had carried out the plans as perfectly as she could, luring him out of the castle with stories of her captors' whereabouts, but Arthur's journey would be nothing but a wild goose chase; he and his retinue would find no trace of Morgause, or anyone else, for that matter, just day after day of earth and tree and sky. Eventually he'd have to return, with failure trailing at his feet, but he'd return, nonetheless; that much, at least, she'd made Morgause promise.
Perhaps she and Arthur had grown apart of late -- Morgana couldn't remember the last time they'd had a meaningful conversation, but even so, she loved Arthur as if he was her blood and she would see no harm come to him. One day he would make a great king; she just had to pave the way for him first. And one day he would understand why.
Morgana trailed a sigh into the morning air, and steeled herself for the work ahead. There was less joy than she'd imagined in making Uther dance to her beat; the satisfaction, when it came, lasted only a brief while and then settled like dead weight in the pit of her stomach. And already she was beginning to tire of pitching up excuse after excuse to insinuate herself into his company -- not least because he still seemed to hold some sway over her, the child in her who could still see warmth and softness behind his eyes, infallibility in his character. He was dangerous in ways she'd not expected, and she would have to be doubly so.
Self-confinement grated like a rasp on her skin, and Morgana threw her doors open, all intentions to find some distraction somewhere in the castle that could occupy her thoughts, at least for this little while, before she had to set herself to impinge on Uther's good graces again.
Sir Leon stood to attention, in the same spot she'd left him the night before when she'd retired to bed.
Her mouth instantly curved into a smile at the sight of him. "Don't you ever sleep?" she laughed.
His stance relaxed a little, and he returned her expression. "I'm only doing my duty, my -- Morgana."
She couldn't help but laugh lightly into the back of her hand at the way his eyes widened when the unintended implication of his words caught up to him. "Beautiful day, don't you think?" she said, saving him from a sputter of apologies, and he grinned at her. "Come, walk with me."
They wended their way to the castle gardens, stepping lightly over the soft turf. For his part, Leon was a solid but silent companion, and though it could easily be ascribed to his inferior position within the castle and not speaking until spoken to, she still appreciated the fact that he was just letting her be. There were no obsequious questions about how she was feeling or what had happened or if she needed anything, and indeed they were wholly unnecessary; the strength of his presence alone was enough to tell her that his care and consideration extended beyond that of mere duty. Where other guards saw a job to be done, Leon saw her. Under different circumstances, perhaps they might have been friends.
Morgana trailed the tips of her fingers alongside a hedge, riffling little leaves awake and scattering their careful collection of morning dew. Leon smiled down at her, kindly, and she wondered if it might not be too late after all.
“I used to love this garden. I would come here with my father, when we used to visit Camelot, and then later, when he joined Uther’s knights,” she heard herself saying, completely unexpectedly, a short while later.
“Is that so?” Leon was still smiling, eyes gleaming, as he watched her pluck a deep pink peony from the ground, fingering its soft petals.
“Yes. One of the first times we visited the castle, I managed to sneak away from my father’s watchful eye and somehow found myself out here. I was only three or four, and I remember thinking it was the most beautiful place on earth.” Her voice was soft, reflective, holding a reverent quality as she recalled the childhood memory. “I played for hours here, and it never once occurred to me that my father might be wondering where I was.”
“What happened?” Leon queried, genuine interest resounding in his tone, and Morgana tossed a smile in his direction.
Warmth filled her soul, and she chuckled pre-emptively at the rest of the story, remembering the anger and fear, but also love, that’d resonated from her father that day. “He found me some time later, wide-eyed and panicked, though of course I was too young to fully appreciate why he appeared so upset.” Leon laughed knowingly, the sound sweet and rich in her ears. “He began to scold me, telling me I shouldn’t have run off, what on earth was I thinking, and did I know whose garden I’d been traipsing through?”
A single brow arced high on Leon’s forehead. “He really used the word ‘traipsing’ with a four year old?”
Morgana felt the laughter ripple through her body as it poured from her mouth, and she shook her head, eyeing Leon thoughtfully. “It’s possible that I may be adding an element of elegance to my father's vocabulary, but believe me when I say that it’s better this way.”
They navigated through a lovely patch of multi-coloured irises followed by rows of marigolds, finding themselves at the centre of the garden. Morgana instinctively stopped in front of the lone bench facing the garden’s only white roses, idly rolling the stem of the peony between her fingers. Leon stepped up at her side, one hand planted on his hip as he surveyed the other half of the garden.
“So...” Leon said after a while, letting the word hang in the air between them with an element of curiosity. He was requesting that she finish her story, in his own unobtrusive way, and Morgana felt something like affection well up in her chest for a moment. It only confirmed her earlier conviction that this was more than a mere assignment for him. Morgana was uncertain as to why she’d begun speaking at all, sharing an almost sacred memory from her childhood with a veritable stranger, but in this moment, in the here and now, something about it felt right.
Morgana sat on the bench and waited until Leon followed suit. “My father continued to yell at me, informing me that he’d been utterly terrified, had enlisted half the guards of Camelot to search for my whereabouts, and what would’ve happened if I’d been injured or lost, or worse -- if someone had taken me? Finally, he finished speaking and asked me if I had anything to say.”
She paused, could feel Leon’s eyes on the side of her face, listening intently to every word she spoke, and Morgana tried to remember the last time anyone had shown genuine interest in what she had to say, save for Gwen, and sometimes Arthur. It was, admittedly, a refreshing change of pace.
“Did you? Have anything to say, I mean?” Leon asked, with an almost child-like eagerness.
She laughed, the memory continuing to float through her mind as she mentally replayed the scene. Morgana shifted in her seat, turning so she was facing Leon. She had every intention of watching his face for his reaction this time around. “I did. I told him, ‘Daddy, I picked these for you’, and held out a bouquet of flowers I’d taken from the garden. I think there was one of every colour flower that was found in the garden that day.” The grin spread, unbidden, tugging at the corners of her lips. “I can only imagine the horror he must have felt upon seeing that his daughter had defaced the royal gardens. But all he did was smile at me, deep and full, and scooped me up in his arms, telling me he loved me.”
Leon gazed over at her, smiling broadly, and the expression on his face radiated something resembling amusement, maybe even a hint of affection, and Morgana felt a flutter of emotions dance through her for a few moments. The only thing she knew with any certainty at the moment was that she felt happy, and that sharing this story with Leon hadn’t been a mistake.
“How could a father resist something like that?” Leon said with a warm laugh.
“Naturally, he couldn’t. From that point on, every time we were both in the castle, we would walk together through the gardens,” she concluded, fondly. It’d been a simpler time then, a happier time, and for the briefest of moments, Morgana closed her eyes and pretended that she was that innocent little four-year-old girl once more, filled with hope and enthusiasm for a world that wasn’t tainted, wasn’t darkened by death and grief and guilt and pain. But like all dreams, eventually people had to wake from the fantasy and deal with the reality that faced them each and every day, no matter how much they longed for the dream once again.
The sun was warm, its rays beaming down on them, and Morgana longed to stay in the sun, with the flowers and her present company all day long. However, the tiny voice at the back of Morgana’s mind that sounded suspiciously like Morgause reminded her that time was precious, and would halt for no one. It was with this rather unfortunate thought tumbling around in her mind that Morgana made to stand, indicating her intent to return to the castle once more. She'd intended to ask Uther to accompany her on a walk into town, and while Leon was far more enjoyable company, she could not put off her intentions with Uther any longer. Leon followed obediently behind with something like reluctance in his step.
“He used to pick me flowers,” she added, almost as an afterthought as they wound their way back towards the entrance. “Even though it obviously wasn’t permitted. He picked all kinds for me, but he brought me my favourite most often.”
There was a pause, and then, “Which are?”
Morgana froze mid-step, casting a sidelong glance in Leon’s direction. Suddenly a world of opportunities seemed to lend itself to Morgana, and she was tempted to have a little fun with him. If she simply told Leon the answer, it would be over and done with, but that didn’t feel very entertaining, and in a time when there was little she was able to find joy in, she liked the idea. She held no delusions as to where her focus lay, but did that mean she had to remain dedicated to it one hundred percent of the time? In the end, she settled on, “It’s no fun if I tell you.”
Leon raised a brow, chuckling, but didn't say anything, and as they neared the castle, Morgana glanced at his gentle profile, the sun on his face. He was her reprieve from the shackles of Uther's overbearing worry, and it didn't escape her notice that the one man sent to guard her night and day, as he would a prisoner, was the only one who made her feel truly free. They walked in silence towards the throne room, Morgana hardening herself with every step that brought her closer to Uther and her plans for him.
When they reached it, Morgana laid her hand on the door, preparing to ingratiate herself into Uther's company, but something made her stop short. She turned to Leon. "Thank you," she said suddenly. It came as a surprise as much to her as to Leon, and his eyes widened in question.
"For what?"
She shook her head at herself. "It's -- nothing. For allowing me to witter on at you like an old lady, I suppose," she said.
Leon smiled. "Any time."
Morgana nodded at him, sealing his smile in her memory, and pushed open the doors, ready to face her self-imposed destiny.
Arthur reined his horse to a halt, wondering, not for the first time, if Morgana's directions had been any good at all. The large clearing from which she'd said she’d escaped was void of any human touches; dead, brittle leaves rasped at one another in the breeze, cold and dry. Pulling his horse alongside, Merlin surveyed the area, apprehension resolving itself across his face. Arthur could imagine the expression mirrored in his own countenance; there was something about this particular place that felt distinctly wrong.
It was too quiet. The trees were unnaturally sparse here, a staggered ring around a rocky outcrop from which they all seemed to be slowly backing away. High overhead, a V of birds stole across the sky without a sound.
Following Arthur's lead, Merlin dismounted, and seemed to regret it almost as soon as his feet hit the ground. "There's nothing here. We should go back," he said, nerves on edge, like he was the one in charge.
Inclined as he was to agree, Arthur strode forwards instead, sword at the ready. They'd already come this far, through one of the more disastrous reconnaissance trips in recent memory -- he still didn't know where his knights were, to say nothing of the incident with Merlin; the least they could do at this point was to make sure all was as it seemed. Besides, regardless of whether Morgana had been in the right frame of mind during her escape attempt or not, Arthur felt he owed it to her to follow through with this. She was his family, and he'd be damned if he'd let the people who'd hurt her get away with it scot-free.
"Come on, Merlin," he said, in his best authoritative voice, and wound his way round the outcrop, one hand dragging lightly along its crags for balance as he stepped with care over desiccated skeletons of fallen trees. Fine dust skated off where his fingers grazed past several large grooves in the rock, worn smooth like ancient whetstones.
He felt rather than saw Merlin radiating a frown into his back, but Arthur carried on, secure in the knowledge that Merlin would follow, never mind that every footfall crunched with disapproval.
A low, wide mouth of a cave yawned into view, its depths offering nothing but a cool, crisp darkness.
Merlin caught up shortly, coming to stand by Arthur's side as they contemplated the gloomy recesses. "Look, I really don't think --" he said, and shut up at Arthur's terse hand signal.
"Do you hear that?"
The sound, quiet but mildly abrasive, wound its way out of the cave, the fluttered scrape of a hundred pages being turned at once.
"They could be in there," Arthur added, though it was more for the sake of exhausting all possibilities than for any real belief that the sorcerers who'd taken Morgana were still hiding out in the exact same spot from which she'd fled, if this was even the correct place to begin with.
Merlin stared at him, equal parts baleful and incredulous. "Personally, I'm more inclined to believe that a murderous beast lives here. Please let's not find out."
"Where's your sense of adventure, Merlin?" Arthur asked, clapping him on the shoulder.
The look edged over into a glare. "Must've left it at home; let's go and fetch it, shall we?"
"I don't know why I let you come on these trips with me," Arthur said.
Merlin picked up a large branch off the ground, frayed and splintered at one end from whatever had caused it to dislocate from the tree. He hefted its weight in one hand, swung it experimentally, exuding about as much menace as a child. Still, if he was looking for potential weapons, it meant that he was at least coming round to the idea of searching the cave.
"As I recall," said Merlin, the makeshift club hanging loosely at his side, "it wasn't so much my idea to come along as -- Arthur!"
Arthur hit the ground before he was even aware that his feet had left it, a blur of sand and streaks whirling across his vision, and down the length of his torso, what he imagined fortified castle gates must feel upon making the intimate acquaintance of a battering ram. He sucked in a mouthful of air, trying to get breath back into his lungs; he could almost see the imprint of his own body in the soil from the speed and force with which he'd been barrelled down. He struggled to his feet, dimly aware, first, of Merlin shouting at him, and then of his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword.
A great yellow eye stared at him from above, unblinking. Arthur stumbled backwards until he bumped up against a smooth wall, peppered in a variegated diamond pattern, his hands finding little purchase against its satiny surface. His head was still swimming slightly, and it took a few seconds for the panorama to resolve itself into anything remotely within the realm of comprehension. The eye swooped upwards, revealing its partner; a ridged brow arching over angry black pupils gave it a distinct air of infuriation, but rather more concerning were the two spikes that spired out of its head, perfect impressions of which were probably already forming on Arthur's chest in black and blue.
When he'd finished gaping, Arthur registered the unmistakeable sound of a long, loud hiss.
"Merlin?" he called out calmly over the wall, even as he tightened his grip on his sword. "If I've cracked my head open and am currently hallucinating a giant snake with horns, now would be an excellent time to tell me."
"No, no, it's very real," Merlin called back, and hurled a stone in its direction.
"Oh, good; I thought I might be going crazy. This is so much better," Arthur said dryly, and twirled his sword out of habit; the deep familiarity with which he wielded his weapon sometimes unnerved human opponents, and while it had yet to work on other sentient beings, he could still hope. In any case, it might serve as a minor distraction while he tried to get the measure of his adversary, which, if he had to hazard a guess, ranged somewhere between a hundred-and-fifty feet and bloody massive.
"Yes, well, I hate to say I told you so, but I did bring up the possibility of a murderous beast, didn't I?" Merlin said.
Another large stone sailed through the air, bouncing off the serpent's armour with barely a graze to be seen. He might as well have been throwing feathers at it for all the good he was doing, as the snake seemed far less concerned about Merlin's projectiles than with quietly teasing Arthur with the prospect of a painful death, coiling a wide, slow ring around him so he could make no escape.
"This is hardly the time to be arguing semantics, Merlin," said Arthur, and would have given him a pointed look, were it not for the barrier of skin and scales between them that stood almost as high as Arthur was tall.
Apparently tired of waiting around until Arthur and Merlin stopped talking, the snake reared suddenly, and bore down on Arthur, eyes alight with fire and fangs dripping with the promise of pain. Arthur tucked and rolled out of reach, bringing his sword high in an arc; it crashed into the snake's body, shuddering at the contact.
Arthur struck again, to little avail; the entire length of the snake was covered in thick scales, as strong and resistant as the best armour money could buy -- he could spend all day swinging at it and make no difference, never mind that it was attached to a very angry head that sported venomous fangs within and horns without. His chest still throbbed fiercely from the first blow, and a new ache unfurled inside him as the thought occurred to him that this might very well be the day he died. The yellow eyes gleamed at him.
From outside the ring, Merlin continued his assault, throwing anything he could get his hands on and shouting incendiary things at the snake to sway its attention from Arthur, as if it could even understand that Merlin was impugning its mother. A stray rock slammed into its eye, a trail of blood bubbling out, and the snake blundered backwards for a moment, before regrouping to focus its now compromised sight on Merlin. He stood his ground, though whether out of fear or misdirected bravery, Arthur couldn't be sure.
"Merlin! Run!" he yelled, and slashed at the snake repeatedly. There was still enough hope for Merlin to survive this, and he would do everything in his power to make sure it happened; if he fell, at least he'd go down knowing Merlin was all right. "For god's sake, Merlin, get out of here!"
"Can't," Merlin replied shortly, which was the same as Won't, spearing a branch through the air and waving his arms about wildly to redirect the snake's attack away from Arthur and onto himself.
He got his wish. With one terrible, powerful swipe of its tail, the snake sent Merlin flying, and Arthur could only watch, heartsick, as Merlin's body struck a tree trunk and slumped bonelessly to the ground. Repeated cries of his name did nothing to rouse him, and white rage boiled inside Arthur's gut, overspreading his skin in waves of heat and fury.
Arthur redoubled his efforts, drawing a thin trace of blood this time, even knowing all the while in the back of his mind that it was no use. In time, his energy would flag and he'd be spent and drained long before he could even get a clean strike in underneath all those scales, and then it would all be over.
A hiss of agreement rolled off the snake's tongue. It thrust its head towards Arthur, one fang catching in his mail and knocking him to the ground. Taking advantage of its proximity, Arthur plunged his sword into its bad eye and twisted. The snake heaved upward, frenzied in its shock and agony, mouth wide open in a soundless scream.
For Merlin, he thought. That much, at least.
The snake began to uncoil around Arthur, the sound of hundreds of scales striking each other in motion amplified in the wide silence of the clearing.
Now with an unobstructed view, Arthur could see Merlin in full, lying on his side at the base of a tree with his arms at awkward angles, face slack. Arthur's stomach gave an unexpected lurch at the sight, but he couldn't think about that now, couldn't contemplate what it meant; not dead, not dead, not dead he said to himself.
Merlin stirred.
The rasping stopped, and Arthur pulled himself together just in time to leap out of the way as the snake sheered past, its head flat and horns poised like spears. It shifted abruptly after missing its mark, barrelling at Arthur again from the other direction, screaming its anger through the frazzled rustle of the undergrowth. Arthur, too slow to make a full escape this time, received the brunt of the blow on his left arm, and the force of it spun him into the ground, sword jarred loose from his grip.
Flat on his back, with pain burning down the length of his arm, Arthur scrabbled for his sword as the snake advanced, the line of its mouth curved like a smile. He glanced around desperately to see where his weapon had fallen, and the glint of its hilt just out of reach caught his eye at the same time that Merlin rose onto a shaky elbow, extending a hand towards him.
As though given an extra push, Arthur's fingers inched towards the sword, closing around the hilt just as the snake stormed forward, its jaws stretched open as if it intended to swallow the whole world and Arthur along with it. With a burst of strength Arthur didn't know he had left in him, he rolled to his feet and thrust the sword through the roof of the snake's mouth and wrenched backwards, razoring the length of the snake's head in half. Blood and venom dripped from the ceiling of its mouth, its entire body frozen mid-rush for a split second, before it swayed and collapsed, clouds of leaves and twigs and dust pillowing and piling around it.
Arthur tumbled to his knees; stuck in his throat was a knot that wasn't sure whether it wanted to come out as a laugh or a cry. Steps away, Merlin let his hand fall, and Arthur blinked at him, a curious feeling rising inside.
Struggling to his feet, Merlin hobbled forward. "You did it," he said.
Arthur glanced at the monster's corpse, and then at Merlin, and said nothing.
Continue to Chapter Six
Authors: accordingtomel & adelagia
Summary: Three months after her disappearance, Morgana returns to Camelot with a hidden agenda, but she's not the only one keeping secrets, and a series of unintended revelations forces her, Merlin and Arthur on an intertwined journey of revenge, redemption and love.
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, Leon/Morgana (elements of Uther/Morgana, Arthur/Gwen)
Rating: PG-13 (eventual NC-17)
Spoilers/Warnings: Everything up to and including 2x13
Word Count: 6,889
Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is being made. Please don't sue.
Authors' Note: Thanks so much to our lovely beta/Brit-picker ravenflight21.
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun burned radiantly in the late afternoon, casting its light through the protection of the thick forest engulfing them, sky a rich blue save for the occasional dots of white, puffy clouds wisping across the sky. A light breeze whispered past them, kissing Merlin's cheeks and neck soothingly, touched pink from the unexpected warmth of the day. The forest abounded with life and activity around them all morning, leaves swaying in the wind, birds passing through, hooves padding against the rock and dirt. It was the first tolerable day they'd had since setting off from Camelot on this mission, but Merlin found it next to impossible to actually enjoy any of it.
To say that things had grown awkward between Merlin and Arthur after what'd happened that morning would be an understatement. In fact, awkward had long since packed its bags and fled the scene, making room for the arrival of its cousin, unbearable tension. Silence stretched on for miles, hanging heavy in the air with the weight of an implication neither was quite ready to acknowledge, let alone process. This morning's affairs had left both feeling uncomfortable and slightly on edge, the hows, whens and whys of the situation abandoned in favour of carrying on as if nothing had happened at all. Which, really, when Merlin thought about it (and he absolutely, positively had not), was true -- nothing had technically happened between them. Unless one counted waking to find oneself snuggled tight in the arms of another man, who just so happened to be not only a close friend but a royal prat, with the added bonus that both were painfully aroused. Then perhaps there was something more to be said of the situation. Except that Arthur, being his usual obstinate self, had simply refused to speak to Merlin for the last couple of hours unless absolutely necessary, in spite of Merlin's numerous attempts at engaging the prince in conversation.
He'd finally given up the valiant fight over an hour prior, accepting that Arthur apparently needed some time to sulk or process or erase the event from his memory, whichever he deemed the most valuable course of action. Which unfortunately left Merlin to his own debilitating thought processes.
The burden of decisions made in recent months hung heavily from his shoulders, weight amassing on his conscience and dragging him just a bit closer to the edge of what he could reasonably be expected to bear, each and every day that passed. For a few blessed weeks, things had finally started to look up for Merlin, as though the entire world was not his to protect, and would not bring about his end. But then fate had viciously decided that he'd had enough of a reprieve, returning Morgana to Camelot and forcing him to relive the disastrous consequences of his recent choices once again. Never mind the fact that he was still grieving for his father, in addition to carrying the burden of keeping his magic secret from those closest to him. To be confronted now with his feelings for Arthur -- feelings he had determinedly shut away once he'd learned of Arthur's affections for Gwen -- seemed like the straw that would break his back and lead to his ultimate undoing, if he let it.
But the thoughts refused to vacate his mind, prodding and poking at him until, helplessly, Merlin had no choice but to allow himself a brief moment to ruminate on it. When thinking back, Merlin couldn't quite identify the exact moment he fell in love with Arthur, but he remembered the circumstances under which the discovery slunk from the hidden recesses of his mind and implanted itself firmly into his brain. It had been a rather ordinary moment, or at least as ordinary as their lives managed to be on any given day. There had been no fanfare or sudden rush that knocked him off his feet, just a small conversation that had taken place in Arthur's chambers one quiet evening, as most evenings had been since their return from victory in Ealdor, with Merlin losing himself in contemplation and tired grief. He'd done his best to hide it; however much he had loved Will, he couldn't show it for fear of Arthur's derision, knowing what he thought of sorcery -- and of Will, who'd managed to be a complete and utter ass to Arthur the entire time, except for the part where he'd saved his life.
But Arthur had surprised him then, as he so often did with unexpected bursts of kindness, catching him by the shoulder while he'd been busy stoking the chamber fire.
I'm sorry, he'd said. About Will.
Merlin didn't remember what he'd said in reply, probably some stuttered thank you or, more likely, he’d just gawped at Arthur; but he did remember the searing warmth that had flooded his chest then, realising that even in the weeks after Will's death, Arthur had kept it in his thoughts, though he had no reason to. Just as he had no reason to bring it up, or to take any interest in Merlin's life whatsoever, or to share the loss that Merlin felt.
He died an honourable death, he'd said. And for that you should be proud of him.
There weren't any other words to remember after this, because Merlin had had no words to say. There had been the lump in his throat that he'd swallowed and the smile that had touched his face, and there had been Arthur, stretching his limbs as he'd climbed into bed, as though he hadn't just made a world of difference at all.
But that was Arthur, through and through, defying expectations so adroitly that it seemed nearly unremarkable. His Arthur.
A single, solitary thought had invaded his mind then, speaking softly, with a defined assurance: I am completely and helplessly in love with Arthur Pendragon. It was uncomplicated -- beautiful, even -- in its lucid simplicity, and Merlin found the discovery to be distinctly less shocking and decidedly more freeing than he would have expected. He'd never deluded himself into believing that Arthur would ever return his affections, but it was clear to him, at least, that Arthur cared about him. And it was enough; or at least that was what he made himself believe. Yet he supposed he'd always held out a little hope, tiny and infinitesimal but there all the same, that Arthur might one day love Merlin with the same reckless abandon with which he loved Arthur.
When Arthur had confessed his feelings for Gwen, it'd hurt, nicking his heart just enough to cut into him in a way that allowed the pain to bleed and never quite heal. But he'd plastered on an indulgent smile, moulding his features into bright approval, and encouraged Arthur in this endeavour in spite of his own heart. For her part, Gwen was a lovely, dear friend to Merlin; she was sweet and caring and just plain good, and Merlin loved her fiercely, would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. And if she was what made Arthur happy, then Merlin resolved that he would never get in the way of that, regardless of his own attachment to the prince.
Unfortunately, most of the time, Merlin's feelings for Arthur threatened to bubble to the surface no matter how hard he attempted to shove them into his subconscious, but this morning's events had left him flummoxed. He was not the least bit surprised at his own physical reaction to waking up wrapped tightly in Arthur's warm embrace; but what confused him was the fact that Arthur had been experiencing the same problem. There were a couple of possible explanations, but the most likely one seemed to be that he'd been dreaming about Gwen, had pulled Merlin into his arms thinking him to be her instead, and had been horrified upon waking to find not only Merlin curled up against him, but an impossibly hard Merlin lying across his chest. It was ridiculous and embarrassing, and suddenly Merlin thought that maybe it was for the best that Arthur wasn't speaking to him right now anyway. He had absolutely no way to explain away his erection and wasn't too keen on the idea of having his heart broken in addition to every other awful thing that'd happened in his life of late. Merlin inadvertently heaved out an embittered sigh, loud enough to be heard, but if Arthur noticed, he gave no outward indication.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Arthur's voice wrenched him from the mental fog he'd managed to wander into. "Merlin, watch out for that--"
But it was already too late. By the time Merlin reacted to the shock of actually hearing Arthur address him directly, he'd already ridden directly into the large, low-hanging branch of a tree. The branch slammed into Merlin's chest, and it knocked him backwards. Merlin's left foot caught in the stirrup, and for a moment he foolishly thought he might be able to regain his balance once more. That was until the horse decided at that very moment to rear up, completing the task of throwing him from the saddle, and Merlin went flying backwards, landing, hard, on the trail with an undignified grunt.
Before he could even process the pain, Merlin curled in on himself, writhing on the ground and gasping for the breath that had literally been knocked out of his lungs. One hand clutched desperately at his throat while the other fisted in his tunic, already feeling his face flush from the lack of air.
No more than a few seconds passed before he felt strong hands grasp his shoulders firmly, hauling him upright into a sitting position and pulling forward slightly. "Come on, Merlin, breathe. Just slow down and take one breath in, one breath out, just like that," Arthur encouraged, fingers digging ever so slightly into his shoulder blades. Merlin felt his eyelids slip shut and he focussed all his attention on following Arthur's instructions. After a few seconds of deliberate, concentrated breathing, air finally started to travel through his lungs once more, and he greedily gulped it back, not caring how ridiculous he might look. They remained there in silence for a couple of minutes until Merlin's breathing slowed to its normal pace, and he glanced up at Arthur for the first time since falling off the horse. As expected, his eyes held a typical air of exasperation. But Merlin also detected a hint of concern, masked by irritation, and he took hope in the idea that Arthur still cared about him at least, even if he wouldn't outwardly admit it.
"Are you all right?" Arthur asked finally, crouched down in front of Merlin, one hand still resting atop his shoulder.
Merlin considered the question. "I think so," he said.
"Good." Arthur nodded, removed his hand, and pushed himself into a standing posture. "Do you think you can stand?"
Merlin rolled his shoulders, shook each leg carefully, dug into the ground with the toe of his boot, then looked up at Arthur. "Yeah, I think I can handle that."
He placed a palm on the forest floor, preparing to brace himself to move into standing, when he noticed Arthur's proffered hand hovering in front of his face. Merlin stared at it in wonder.
"It's called a hand, Merlin," Arthur informed him, when he didn't immediately accept it. "Usually it works best if you grab onto it. I can then pull your clumsy, incompetent arse up off the ground so we can carry on our way. Unless you'd rather I leave you here and come back for you in a couple of days?"
"Prat," Merlin said, word tumbling easily past his lips, and he couldn't quite prevent the accompanying eye roll. But he reached out for Arthur's hand anyway, grasping his wrist and feeling oddly secure when Arthur's fingers curled around his forearm in response.
"Idiot," Arthur retorted with a shake of the head as he yanked Merlin to his feet. However, instead of the muted indifference he'd been exposed to all morning, Arthur's attempt at a chiding tone belied the underlying affection Merlin heard in the word, and it filled him with a sense of relief. Perhaps the early morning affair wouldn't ruin the rest of their time together after all.
Merlin dusted the dirt and sand from his trousers and carefully tested each leg, raising one off the ground and balancing on the other, then switched to the other side. He would be lying if he said his back and thighs weren't sore, and he rubbed absently at a particularly tender spot on his lower back, the scratchy material grating more than actually soothing the area, and he allowed his hand to drop limply back down at his side instead.
"So would you care to explain how you managed to ride directly into that colossal branch that clearly blocked our path? Again?" Arthur asked, reaching over for the reins to Merlin's horse and scratching the stallion's nose. Merlin supposed they were lucky the horse was somewhat accustomed to Merlin's antics and hadn't raced off in the opposite direction at the first opportunity. Without a shadow of a doubt, Merlin knew that he would never be able to share the same saddle as Arthur without revealing his true feelings for the man. However, knowing Arthur, he'd likely force Merlin to walk instead, and that idea was no more pleasant than the first.
"Erm... would you believe that I got distracted?" Merlin offered up lamely, throwing Arthur a demure smile for good measure as he accepted his horse's reins from Arthur's outstretched arm.
Arthur snorted, sounding every bit the arrogant dolt that he often chose to be, but he was also amused, and didn't even attempt to mask the fact. "When it comes to you, Merlin, I'm quite certain that I could believe just about anything."
And without another word, Arthur mounted his horse -- watched to ensure that Merlin had been able to do so as well, though Merlin doubted he'd ever admit to it -- and led them onwards through the forest once more.
Morgause tapped the tip of her sword against the ground repeatedly, as though it weighed no more than a twig. "Again," she said.
Morgana drew in a breath, and for the third time, parroted the instructions given her to bring about Uther's downfall. It was simple, really, twining the man around her finger; she'd only have to manifest the slavish dependence always expected of women at court, and whatever contradictions arose against her usual temperament could easily be explained away by the emotional turmoil she'd experienced in captivity.
"Good," Morgause said once Morgana had finished speaking. She moved the stones weighing down each corner of the map set in front of them and gave Morgana a swift glance, rolling the map up again; the parchment crackled underneath her fingers like the sputter of a dying fire. "And you know how to deal with Arthur."
"Yes," said Morgana, and hesitated. "You won't hurt him?"
"I have no quarrel with Arthur. He just needs to be distracted, that's all, if you're to succeed."
"Will you give me your word?"
Morgause nodded, humming her wordless affirmation, and resumed tapping her sword on the ground, the rough rhythm of metal on dirt like distant drumbeats of war.
*
Morgana stood at her window, her gaze settling upon the steady stream of activity in the courtyard -- guards making their rounds, merchants hauling in their daily deliveries, scullions haggling over the freshness of the wares. How quickly they'd all had to forget that the ground they trod had been stained countless times with the blood of their neighbours, the ash of their friends. Uther had transmuted his fear into hatred and turned his prejudice into a coward's game, making death a public spectacle at his own front doors to keep the masses endlessly afraid. Once upon a time she, too, had believed Uther was the law, never to be crossed, but now she knew better. She would free them all.
Time, however, wasn't entirely on her side. There was only so long Arthur could be expected to stay away from Camelot, and though she had made good progress with Uther, the days were going by quickly and she still had much to put in place before Arthur came back. Morgana had carried out the plans as perfectly as she could, luring him out of the castle with stories of her captors' whereabouts, but Arthur's journey would be nothing but a wild goose chase; he and his retinue would find no trace of Morgause, or anyone else, for that matter, just day after day of earth and tree and sky. Eventually he'd have to return, with failure trailing at his feet, but he'd return, nonetheless; that much, at least, she'd made Morgause promise.
Perhaps she and Arthur had grown apart of late -- Morgana couldn't remember the last time they'd had a meaningful conversation, but even so, she loved Arthur as if he was her blood and she would see no harm come to him. One day he would make a great king; she just had to pave the way for him first. And one day he would understand why.
Morgana trailed a sigh into the morning air, and steeled herself for the work ahead. There was less joy than she'd imagined in making Uther dance to her beat; the satisfaction, when it came, lasted only a brief while and then settled like dead weight in the pit of her stomach. And already she was beginning to tire of pitching up excuse after excuse to insinuate herself into his company -- not least because he still seemed to hold some sway over her, the child in her who could still see warmth and softness behind his eyes, infallibility in his character. He was dangerous in ways she'd not expected, and she would have to be doubly so.
Self-confinement grated like a rasp on her skin, and Morgana threw her doors open, all intentions to find some distraction somewhere in the castle that could occupy her thoughts, at least for this little while, before she had to set herself to impinge on Uther's good graces again.
Sir Leon stood to attention, in the same spot she'd left him the night before when she'd retired to bed.
Her mouth instantly curved into a smile at the sight of him. "Don't you ever sleep?" she laughed.
His stance relaxed a little, and he returned her expression. "I'm only doing my duty, my -- Morgana."
She couldn't help but laugh lightly into the back of her hand at the way his eyes widened when the unintended implication of his words caught up to him. "Beautiful day, don't you think?" she said, saving him from a sputter of apologies, and he grinned at her. "Come, walk with me."
They wended their way to the castle gardens, stepping lightly over the soft turf. For his part, Leon was a solid but silent companion, and though it could easily be ascribed to his inferior position within the castle and not speaking until spoken to, she still appreciated the fact that he was just letting her be. There were no obsequious questions about how she was feeling or what had happened or if she needed anything, and indeed they were wholly unnecessary; the strength of his presence alone was enough to tell her that his care and consideration extended beyond that of mere duty. Where other guards saw a job to be done, Leon saw her. Under different circumstances, perhaps they might have been friends.
Morgana trailed the tips of her fingers alongside a hedge, riffling little leaves awake and scattering their careful collection of morning dew. Leon smiled down at her, kindly, and she wondered if it might not be too late after all.
“I used to love this garden. I would come here with my father, when we used to visit Camelot, and then later, when he joined Uther’s knights,” she heard herself saying, completely unexpectedly, a short while later.
“Is that so?” Leon was still smiling, eyes gleaming, as he watched her pluck a deep pink peony from the ground, fingering its soft petals.
“Yes. One of the first times we visited the castle, I managed to sneak away from my father’s watchful eye and somehow found myself out here. I was only three or four, and I remember thinking it was the most beautiful place on earth.” Her voice was soft, reflective, holding a reverent quality as she recalled the childhood memory. “I played for hours here, and it never once occurred to me that my father might be wondering where I was.”
“What happened?” Leon queried, genuine interest resounding in his tone, and Morgana tossed a smile in his direction.
Warmth filled her soul, and she chuckled pre-emptively at the rest of the story, remembering the anger and fear, but also love, that’d resonated from her father that day. “He found me some time later, wide-eyed and panicked, though of course I was too young to fully appreciate why he appeared so upset.” Leon laughed knowingly, the sound sweet and rich in her ears. “He began to scold me, telling me I shouldn’t have run off, what on earth was I thinking, and did I know whose garden I’d been traipsing through?”
A single brow arced high on Leon’s forehead. “He really used the word ‘traipsing’ with a four year old?”
Morgana felt the laughter ripple through her body as it poured from her mouth, and she shook her head, eyeing Leon thoughtfully. “It’s possible that I may be adding an element of elegance to my father's vocabulary, but believe me when I say that it’s better this way.”
They navigated through a lovely patch of multi-coloured irises followed by rows of marigolds, finding themselves at the centre of the garden. Morgana instinctively stopped in front of the lone bench facing the garden’s only white roses, idly rolling the stem of the peony between her fingers. Leon stepped up at her side, one hand planted on his hip as he surveyed the other half of the garden.
“So...” Leon said after a while, letting the word hang in the air between them with an element of curiosity. He was requesting that she finish her story, in his own unobtrusive way, and Morgana felt something like affection well up in her chest for a moment. It only confirmed her earlier conviction that this was more than a mere assignment for him. Morgana was uncertain as to why she’d begun speaking at all, sharing an almost sacred memory from her childhood with a veritable stranger, but in this moment, in the here and now, something about it felt right.
Morgana sat on the bench and waited until Leon followed suit. “My father continued to yell at me, informing me that he’d been utterly terrified, had enlisted half the guards of Camelot to search for my whereabouts, and what would’ve happened if I’d been injured or lost, or worse -- if someone had taken me? Finally, he finished speaking and asked me if I had anything to say.”
She paused, could feel Leon’s eyes on the side of her face, listening intently to every word she spoke, and Morgana tried to remember the last time anyone had shown genuine interest in what she had to say, save for Gwen, and sometimes Arthur. It was, admittedly, a refreshing change of pace.
“Did you? Have anything to say, I mean?” Leon asked, with an almost child-like eagerness.
She laughed, the memory continuing to float through her mind as she mentally replayed the scene. Morgana shifted in her seat, turning so she was facing Leon. She had every intention of watching his face for his reaction this time around. “I did. I told him, ‘Daddy, I picked these for you’, and held out a bouquet of flowers I’d taken from the garden. I think there was one of every colour flower that was found in the garden that day.” The grin spread, unbidden, tugging at the corners of her lips. “I can only imagine the horror he must have felt upon seeing that his daughter had defaced the royal gardens. But all he did was smile at me, deep and full, and scooped me up in his arms, telling me he loved me.”
Leon gazed over at her, smiling broadly, and the expression on his face radiated something resembling amusement, maybe even a hint of affection, and Morgana felt a flutter of emotions dance through her for a few moments. The only thing she knew with any certainty at the moment was that she felt happy, and that sharing this story with Leon hadn’t been a mistake.
“How could a father resist something like that?” Leon said with a warm laugh.
“Naturally, he couldn’t. From that point on, every time we were both in the castle, we would walk together through the gardens,” she concluded, fondly. It’d been a simpler time then, a happier time, and for the briefest of moments, Morgana closed her eyes and pretended that she was that innocent little four-year-old girl once more, filled with hope and enthusiasm for a world that wasn’t tainted, wasn’t darkened by death and grief and guilt and pain. But like all dreams, eventually people had to wake from the fantasy and deal with the reality that faced them each and every day, no matter how much they longed for the dream once again.
The sun was warm, its rays beaming down on them, and Morgana longed to stay in the sun, with the flowers and her present company all day long. However, the tiny voice at the back of Morgana’s mind that sounded suspiciously like Morgause reminded her that time was precious, and would halt for no one. It was with this rather unfortunate thought tumbling around in her mind that Morgana made to stand, indicating her intent to return to the castle once more. She'd intended to ask Uther to accompany her on a walk into town, and while Leon was far more enjoyable company, she could not put off her intentions with Uther any longer. Leon followed obediently behind with something like reluctance in his step.
“He used to pick me flowers,” she added, almost as an afterthought as they wound their way back towards the entrance. “Even though it obviously wasn’t permitted. He picked all kinds for me, but he brought me my favourite most often.”
There was a pause, and then, “Which are?”
Morgana froze mid-step, casting a sidelong glance in Leon’s direction. Suddenly a world of opportunities seemed to lend itself to Morgana, and she was tempted to have a little fun with him. If she simply told Leon the answer, it would be over and done with, but that didn’t feel very entertaining, and in a time when there was little she was able to find joy in, she liked the idea. She held no delusions as to where her focus lay, but did that mean she had to remain dedicated to it one hundred percent of the time? In the end, she settled on, “It’s no fun if I tell you.”
Leon raised a brow, chuckling, but didn't say anything, and as they neared the castle, Morgana glanced at his gentle profile, the sun on his face. He was her reprieve from the shackles of Uther's overbearing worry, and it didn't escape her notice that the one man sent to guard her night and day, as he would a prisoner, was the only one who made her feel truly free. They walked in silence towards the throne room, Morgana hardening herself with every step that brought her closer to Uther and her plans for him.
When they reached it, Morgana laid her hand on the door, preparing to ingratiate herself into Uther's company, but something made her stop short. She turned to Leon. "Thank you," she said suddenly. It came as a surprise as much to her as to Leon, and his eyes widened in question.
"For what?"
She shook her head at herself. "It's -- nothing. For allowing me to witter on at you like an old lady, I suppose," she said.
Leon smiled. "Any time."
Morgana nodded at him, sealing his smile in her memory, and pushed open the doors, ready to face her self-imposed destiny.
Arthur reined his horse to a halt, wondering, not for the first time, if Morgana's directions had been any good at all. The large clearing from which she'd said she’d escaped was void of any human touches; dead, brittle leaves rasped at one another in the breeze, cold and dry. Pulling his horse alongside, Merlin surveyed the area, apprehension resolving itself across his face. Arthur could imagine the expression mirrored in his own countenance; there was something about this particular place that felt distinctly wrong.
It was too quiet. The trees were unnaturally sparse here, a staggered ring around a rocky outcrop from which they all seemed to be slowly backing away. High overhead, a V of birds stole across the sky without a sound.
Following Arthur's lead, Merlin dismounted, and seemed to regret it almost as soon as his feet hit the ground. "There's nothing here. We should go back," he said, nerves on edge, like he was the one in charge.
Inclined as he was to agree, Arthur strode forwards instead, sword at the ready. They'd already come this far, through one of the more disastrous reconnaissance trips in recent memory -- he still didn't know where his knights were, to say nothing of the incident with Merlin; the least they could do at this point was to make sure all was as it seemed. Besides, regardless of whether Morgana had been in the right frame of mind during her escape attempt or not, Arthur felt he owed it to her to follow through with this. She was his family, and he'd be damned if he'd let the people who'd hurt her get away with it scot-free.
"Come on, Merlin," he said, in his best authoritative voice, and wound his way round the outcrop, one hand dragging lightly along its crags for balance as he stepped with care over desiccated skeletons of fallen trees. Fine dust skated off where his fingers grazed past several large grooves in the rock, worn smooth like ancient whetstones.
He felt rather than saw Merlin radiating a frown into his back, but Arthur carried on, secure in the knowledge that Merlin would follow, never mind that every footfall crunched with disapproval.
A low, wide mouth of a cave yawned into view, its depths offering nothing but a cool, crisp darkness.
Merlin caught up shortly, coming to stand by Arthur's side as they contemplated the gloomy recesses. "Look, I really don't think --" he said, and shut up at Arthur's terse hand signal.
"Do you hear that?"
The sound, quiet but mildly abrasive, wound its way out of the cave, the fluttered scrape of a hundred pages being turned at once.
"They could be in there," Arthur added, though it was more for the sake of exhausting all possibilities than for any real belief that the sorcerers who'd taken Morgana were still hiding out in the exact same spot from which she'd fled, if this was even the correct place to begin with.
Merlin stared at him, equal parts baleful and incredulous. "Personally, I'm more inclined to believe that a murderous beast lives here. Please let's not find out."
"Where's your sense of adventure, Merlin?" Arthur asked, clapping him on the shoulder.
The look edged over into a glare. "Must've left it at home; let's go and fetch it, shall we?"
"I don't know why I let you come on these trips with me," Arthur said.
Merlin picked up a large branch off the ground, frayed and splintered at one end from whatever had caused it to dislocate from the tree. He hefted its weight in one hand, swung it experimentally, exuding about as much menace as a child. Still, if he was looking for potential weapons, it meant that he was at least coming round to the idea of searching the cave.
"As I recall," said Merlin, the makeshift club hanging loosely at his side, "it wasn't so much my idea to come along as -- Arthur!"
Arthur hit the ground before he was even aware that his feet had left it, a blur of sand and streaks whirling across his vision, and down the length of his torso, what he imagined fortified castle gates must feel upon making the intimate acquaintance of a battering ram. He sucked in a mouthful of air, trying to get breath back into his lungs; he could almost see the imprint of his own body in the soil from the speed and force with which he'd been barrelled down. He struggled to his feet, dimly aware, first, of Merlin shouting at him, and then of his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword.
A great yellow eye stared at him from above, unblinking. Arthur stumbled backwards until he bumped up against a smooth wall, peppered in a variegated diamond pattern, his hands finding little purchase against its satiny surface. His head was still swimming slightly, and it took a few seconds for the panorama to resolve itself into anything remotely within the realm of comprehension. The eye swooped upwards, revealing its partner; a ridged brow arching over angry black pupils gave it a distinct air of infuriation, but rather more concerning were the two spikes that spired out of its head, perfect impressions of which were probably already forming on Arthur's chest in black and blue.
When he'd finished gaping, Arthur registered the unmistakeable sound of a long, loud hiss.
"Merlin?" he called out calmly over the wall, even as he tightened his grip on his sword. "If I've cracked my head open and am currently hallucinating a giant snake with horns, now would be an excellent time to tell me."
"No, no, it's very real," Merlin called back, and hurled a stone in its direction.
"Oh, good; I thought I might be going crazy. This is so much better," Arthur said dryly, and twirled his sword out of habit; the deep familiarity with which he wielded his weapon sometimes unnerved human opponents, and while it had yet to work on other sentient beings, he could still hope. In any case, it might serve as a minor distraction while he tried to get the measure of his adversary, which, if he had to hazard a guess, ranged somewhere between a hundred-and-fifty feet and bloody massive.
"Yes, well, I hate to say I told you so, but I did bring up the possibility of a murderous beast, didn't I?" Merlin said.
Another large stone sailed through the air, bouncing off the serpent's armour with barely a graze to be seen. He might as well have been throwing feathers at it for all the good he was doing, as the snake seemed far less concerned about Merlin's projectiles than with quietly teasing Arthur with the prospect of a painful death, coiling a wide, slow ring around him so he could make no escape.
"This is hardly the time to be arguing semantics, Merlin," said Arthur, and would have given him a pointed look, were it not for the barrier of skin and scales between them that stood almost as high as Arthur was tall.
Apparently tired of waiting around until Arthur and Merlin stopped talking, the snake reared suddenly, and bore down on Arthur, eyes alight with fire and fangs dripping with the promise of pain. Arthur tucked and rolled out of reach, bringing his sword high in an arc; it crashed into the snake's body, shuddering at the contact.
Arthur struck again, to little avail; the entire length of the snake was covered in thick scales, as strong and resistant as the best armour money could buy -- he could spend all day swinging at it and make no difference, never mind that it was attached to a very angry head that sported venomous fangs within and horns without. His chest still throbbed fiercely from the first blow, and a new ache unfurled inside him as the thought occurred to him that this might very well be the day he died. The yellow eyes gleamed at him.
From outside the ring, Merlin continued his assault, throwing anything he could get his hands on and shouting incendiary things at the snake to sway its attention from Arthur, as if it could even understand that Merlin was impugning its mother. A stray rock slammed into its eye, a trail of blood bubbling out, and the snake blundered backwards for a moment, before regrouping to focus its now compromised sight on Merlin. He stood his ground, though whether out of fear or misdirected bravery, Arthur couldn't be sure.
"Merlin! Run!" he yelled, and slashed at the snake repeatedly. There was still enough hope for Merlin to survive this, and he would do everything in his power to make sure it happened; if he fell, at least he'd go down knowing Merlin was all right. "For god's sake, Merlin, get out of here!"
"Can't," Merlin replied shortly, which was the same as Won't, spearing a branch through the air and waving his arms about wildly to redirect the snake's attack away from Arthur and onto himself.
He got his wish. With one terrible, powerful swipe of its tail, the snake sent Merlin flying, and Arthur could only watch, heartsick, as Merlin's body struck a tree trunk and slumped bonelessly to the ground. Repeated cries of his name did nothing to rouse him, and white rage boiled inside Arthur's gut, overspreading his skin in waves of heat and fury.
Arthur redoubled his efforts, drawing a thin trace of blood this time, even knowing all the while in the back of his mind that it was no use. In time, his energy would flag and he'd be spent and drained long before he could even get a clean strike in underneath all those scales, and then it would all be over.
A hiss of agreement rolled off the snake's tongue. It thrust its head towards Arthur, one fang catching in his mail and knocking him to the ground. Taking advantage of its proximity, Arthur plunged his sword into its bad eye and twisted. The snake heaved upward, frenzied in its shock and agony, mouth wide open in a soundless scream.
For Merlin, he thought. That much, at least.
The snake began to uncoil around Arthur, the sound of hundreds of scales striking each other in motion amplified in the wide silence of the clearing.
Now with an unobstructed view, Arthur could see Merlin in full, lying on his side at the base of a tree with his arms at awkward angles, face slack. Arthur's stomach gave an unexpected lurch at the sight, but he couldn't think about that now, couldn't contemplate what it meant; not dead, not dead, not dead he said to himself.
Merlin stirred.
The rasping stopped, and Arthur pulled himself together just in time to leap out of the way as the snake sheered past, its head flat and horns poised like spears. It shifted abruptly after missing its mark, barrelling at Arthur again from the other direction, screaming its anger through the frazzled rustle of the undergrowth. Arthur, too slow to make a full escape this time, received the brunt of the blow on his left arm, and the force of it spun him into the ground, sword jarred loose from his grip.
Flat on his back, with pain burning down the length of his arm, Arthur scrabbled for his sword as the snake advanced, the line of its mouth curved like a smile. He glanced around desperately to see where his weapon had fallen, and the glint of its hilt just out of reach caught his eye at the same time that Merlin rose onto a shaky elbow, extending a hand towards him.
As though given an extra push, Arthur's fingers inched towards the sword, closing around the hilt just as the snake stormed forward, its jaws stretched open as if it intended to swallow the whole world and Arthur along with it. With a burst of strength Arthur didn't know he had left in him, he rolled to his feet and thrust the sword through the roof of the snake's mouth and wrenched backwards, razoring the length of the snake's head in half. Blood and venom dripped from the ceiling of its mouth, its entire body frozen mid-rush for a split second, before it swayed and collapsed, clouds of leaves and twigs and dust pillowing and piling around it.
Arthur tumbled to his knees; stuck in his throat was a knot that wasn't sure whether it wanted to come out as a laugh or a cry. Steps away, Merlin let his hand fall, and Arthur blinked at him, a curious feeling rising inside.
Struggling to his feet, Merlin hobbled forward. "You did it," he said.
Arthur glanced at the monster's corpse, and then at Merlin, and said nothing.
Continue to Chapter Six