Before the Sun Breaks Another Day -- Chapter Eight
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: 5,794
Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is being made. Please don't sue.
Authors' Note: Continued thanks to ravenflight21 for the beta/Brit-pick :).
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fact that she'd seen this happen dozens of times before had no bearing on the visceral anger threatening to gush out of her in a slew of curses and fists. The court was gathered in the great hall, for no other reason than Uther liked to make an occasional spectacle of these things, and because he could.
On the other side of the king, Arthur shifted impatiently, uncomfortable in his chair and position, clearly waiting for a chance to voice his dissent, and Morgana loved him for it. For her part, for her deception, she could no longer speak her mind freely; not that it would be of much use if she ended up in the dungeons in restraints while the accused marched to the pyre.
This time, it was a boy, no older than fifteen by the look of him, though terrified enough to throw all sense of propriety to the wind and sob like a lost child crying for his mother.
Morgana, viciously, pressed her own distress down, locked it in a cage, made sure no trace of it could be seen on her face. At the back of the hall, Merlin had less luck wrestling his feelings into obedience, a white-knuckled restlessness tensing his whole body. She caught his eye, and for a brief moment there passed a shared understanding between them, two outsiders stealing through the doorway into a world that wanted nothing to do with them.
She hadn't forgiven him. She wasn't sure if she ever could, but she knew why he hid and why things had turned out like this between them. Still, uncertainty nagged at her at whether sparing his life was the right thing to do, especially when he'd had no qualms taking hers. Morgana tore her eyes away from him, feeling sick.
"This is absurd," Arthur said finally, interrupting the litany of charges flung at the boy in the middle of the room. "His sister was sick and he was only trying to help. Surely you can understand --"
Uther held up a silencing hand. "Sorcery is sorcery, however small," he said in a low voice. "And the law is not to be bent by whims. He knew the consequences when he undertook his treachery. Didn't you, boy?" He swept a hard look across the boy's head as though his presence could be scrubbed clean out of existence.
"Please, my lord," said the boy, a rattle of bones and desperation, "I only wished for my sister to get better; I promise, I promise I won't ever do it again. Please, my mum and dad, they need me -- the crops --" He hiccuped, choking over his own breath.
For a tiny moment, Morgana thought she saw the king soften, but perhaps it was only fanciful thinking; for someone who had been willing to sentence his oldest, most loyal friend to execution because of the unwarranted accusations of a quack witchfinder whose reputation preceded torture and death, of course a mere peasant boy stood no chance.
"I daresay you should have thought of that beforehand," Uther said, and motioned the guards to take the boy away.
As the court dissolved, a babble of murmurs and mutters rising to keep the sound of the boy's cries at bay, Arthur leapt to his feet, and Morgana willed him forward with all the withering hope left in her heart.
"Father, you can't do this; he's just a boy, for god's sake."
It sounded familiar, and it was; it was like watching the same scene from a play over and over again.
"Enough, Arthur. You know the law as well as I do; we cannot make exceptions," Uther said, with a laboured weariness that heated Morgana's resentment to a boil. "And might I remind you that I will not have my authority undermined in my own court."
The same actors, the same ending.
Morgana watched silently as Uther strode out of the hall with the finality of someone who always gets the last word, leaving Arthur to look ruefully after him and then gather the pieces of a disappointed son and shape them into a prince.
"Come on," he said quietly to Merlin, who had yet to stop radiating wretchedness from his little corner of the room, "I feel like having some target practice."
No one had ever accused Morgana of being particularly observant, but the gesture, small as it was and nearly insignificant, caught her attention immediately. Arthur was tactile in a way that often caused mild injury -- a clap on the back after a good joke, a cuff on the shoulder for encouragement, a swat with the flat of his sword for not paying attention -- but his hand on the small of Merlin's back as he ushered them out of the hall, it was something different entirely, protective, and maybe even proprietary.
He obviously didn't know about Merlin's magic, or Merlin wouldn't have looked so horrible and pallid, and she wondered how hard Arthur would fight for him if it was Merlin on his knees in front of the king. She wondered how hard Arthur would fight for her.
No matter, Morgana thought to herself, her gaze sweeping over the empty room. She'd make sure he'd never have to.
Camelot's struggle with sorcery had gone on as long as he could remember; there were dim recollections of burnings and beheadings carefully scheduled during his lessons, when he'd be shut up in the castle doing sums while blood flowed across the flagstones, and then a rather clearer memory of Gaius arguing, in his understated, subservient manner that never amounted to much dissent at all, with Uther about making Arthur attend his first public execution at the age of nine. He'd ended up squeezing his eyes shut during it, the collective gasp of the crowd more than enough to bear at the time, though he'd known full well he ought to have been brave about it, as instructed. But then, Uther's instructions often didn't sink as deep as he expected.
It would have been easier, maybe, if the years of Uther banging on about the evils of sorcery had instilled the same manner in Arthur; at least then he wouldn't have the small voice always tugging at him, telling him that his father, who was strong and mighty and wise, was also wrong.
And it had troubled him enough this time, losing the battle yet again against his father's bullheadedness, that as soon as he and Merlin had had a private moment while setting up the archery targets, Arthur declared that things would change once he ascended to the throne.
He meant every word, though, for reasons he hadn't the wherewithal to explore at the moment, he wasn't sure why he'd had to make such a point of it to Merlin, of all people, who often missed the point of things even if they poked him in the eye; such admissions were dangerous -- treasonous, even, if they caught Uther on a bad day. All Arthur knew for certain was that one day he would put an end to this blind fury against magic; that Merlin happened to be there when Arthur had set the thought to words -- coincidence.
It definitely wouldn't be the last among many, Arthur thought wryly to himself, as he wended his way through the castle now, left to his own devices while Merlin attended to his apprenticeship duties. Merlin seemed to collect coincidences as an avid hobby; if they added up to something more concrete Arthur hadn't seen it yet, though he had his theories. Or just the one theory, which made absolute sense when he put his memories together end to end, and seemed like the mad ravings of a drunkard when he thought of Merlin and his allergy to doing anything right.
But then there were a lot of things about Merlin that reconciled about as neatly as pieces from a dozen different puzzles. Even physically, he seemed to have been fashioned from an overabundance of angles and elbows and clothed by an indecisive child; he was intuitive to a fault when it came to Arthur's needs except involving anything to do with cleanliness; he never shut up apart from the times when extracting a single word from him was as exhausting as a week-long hunting trip; his smile was as bright as the sun except he never used it anymore.
It wasn't difficult to tell when something was bothering Merlin, though, in this case, it wasn't so much that something was bothering him as harassing him within an inch of his life and deriving great pleasure from it. And if whatever was bothering him happened to be a whomever, Arthur would have no compunction about banishing the interloper to the next life and beyond, but he had no clue what was weighing on Merlin's heart, and this was clearly one of those times Merlin wouldn't say a word in spite of Arthur's repeated needling. The best he could do, and it wasn't nearly enough, was to pay attention and make sure he was listening should Merlin decide to let him in on it.
Perhaps he had gone too far with his prattle about guardian angels, trying to goad Merlin into answering a question he didn't really need an answer to. He'd stopped short of asking it outright, partly because he was afraid of being wrong, but mostly because he didn't know what he would do if he was right. At present, all he had was speculation, and that wasn't anything that needed to be acted on; if he had confirmation, however, everything would change irrevocably, and what that would mean for him and Merlin was something he didn't want to think about. His one consolation was that he wasn't what was causing Merlin's melancholy, because that cloud had been hanging over Merlin's head for months now, but his comments and prying probably hadn't helped, and Arthur suddenly wished he'd never said anything at all.
Arthur sighed softly to himself as he passed through the castle, half-wishing he could return to the days when servants were just servants and didn't do awful things like crawl under his skin and curl up and nestle there like they belonged.
He rounded a corner to find Gwen pacing along the corridor outside his chambers, worrying her sleeves between her fingers. A pang of guilt struck a sour note in him as he realised he hadn't thought of her for days. "Gwen," he said. "Is everything all right?"
"Oh!" she said, startled at the sound of his voice. "Yes, everything's fine. I think. It's just -- have you seen Morgana recently?"
"Why? Did you misplace her?"
Gwen granted him a smile at this, the sort of indulgent expression a mother might bestow upon a sweetly silly child. "I've just come away from her chambers and left her in Sir Leon's good hands," she said, playing along as though Arthur's question had been remotely serious. Her smile faded, however, as Arthur strode up to her. "I wonder if -- if we could talk?"
Not at all liking the restlessness that crossed her gentle features, Arthur extended an arm, sweeping her into his chambers with a wide gesture. "Of course, anything."
"Have you noticed --" Gwen began, and stopped herself, as though she had been about to say something that ought not be said, fingers drifting over her lips like they could hide her words.
"What is it?"
"My lady has been acting a bit strange lately," she said, the end of her statement rising into a near question, seeking validation.
Arthur shrugged; the truth was that he'd been so preoccupied, first with trailing after Morgana's assailants and then coming home with his head stuffed so full of thoughts of Merlin that there wasn't space for anything else, he hadn't had the time to notice much. "In what way?" he asked.
Gwen's cheeks stained with a blush. "Maybe it's nothing," she hastened to say, but the slight furrow of her brow showed quite plainly that, as far as she was concerned, it was a lot more than nothing. "I don't think I've done anything wrong... but she doesn't talk to me like she used to; she keeps everything to herself now."
Arthur tried not to raise an eyebrow, and from the way Gwen's mouth twisted as soon as she finished speaking, she herself was aware that what she'd just said didn't sound critically urgent at all and more like a bit of a sulk.
"Look," said Arthur, attempting a voice of reason, "she's been through a lot in the past few months; it'll take her some time to adjust. I'm sure she'll be back to her old self soon enough."
"No, of course, I know. Absolutely, yes," Gwen said hurriedly. She flicked her eyes up at him and averted her gaze just as quickly. "But it's not just that. Her behaviour around the king... It's almost..."
Arthur nodded once, encouragingly. Under the best of circumstances Gwen had a tendency to let her words knot themselves up.
She bit her lip. "... Unseemly?"
"What," Arthur asked slowly, "do you mean?"
Gwen gestured in a vague, helpless manner. "Well, they seem a bit -- extremely -- fond of each other," she said, tilting her head meaningfully.
"Guinevere," Arthur interjected, a little more sharply than he intended. But if she was insinuating what he thought she was insinuating, then all the tight-voiced denial in the world wouldn't even begin to erase the horrid idea of -- the thing she was insinuating.
Morgana and his father? Preposterous. Of course, he knew they loved each other, but it was in a very familial sort of way, not -- the other one. He could barely voice it to himself; the very idea of it was appalling. Morgana had come under Uther's care as a child and grown up in the Pendragon household as a part of the family, as a daughter and sister and -- all right, perhaps lots of people had expected Arthur and Morgana to marry some day, but that was all fanciful, useless talk, and besides, he'd got over his attraction to her a long time ago. It wasn't his fault they'd always been thrown in each other's company, and the pale, lanky, moody girl who'd arrived at their doors years ago had eventually discovered how to be downright stunning instead. And anyway that had only lasted for a bit; whatever beauty had been bestowed upon her by the gods had been cancelled out by the fact that it had no impact whatsoever on her ability to be a bossy, smug sibling who always knew, in a very loud and pushy sort of way, what was best for him. In other words, her place in the family was sealed. To imply that her affection for Uther, or vice versa, was anything more was simply ridiculous.
Arthur shook his head to clear away the debris of memories and what-ifs. "Gwen, where did you hear this nonsense?" he asked, and regretted the question immediately. He knew she wasn't one for idle gossip, and even if she were, would never be so stupid as to repeat it to him.
"I didn't," she said, drawing herself up slightly. Her eyes remained downcast, though he wasn't sure if she was too insulted to look at him or if her servile instincts were kicking in. "I apologise for taking up your time, my lord."
As she walked out of his chambers, Arthur looked after her helplessly, wondering if he should call her back. But he knew it wouldn't do any good; she'd come to him in confidence and he'd basically accused her of slagging off his family from the outset. Besides, he wasn't sure he believed her in the first place, and they'd probably only end up arguing -- or, at least, he'd tell her she was imagining things and she'd look at him unconvinced but say, Yes, I'm sure you're right, my lord anyway, because despite what tender words passed between them during the quiet moments before a battle or under the highs of victory, more often than not, they still treated each other as the rules of rank required them to do.
And it might not have made a difference to Arthur's thinking, the apparent necessity to maintain appearances with Gwen, had he not had Merlin constantly tumbling through his rooms and his consciousness to throw all sense of propriety out the window. He did his chores, sure enough, and occasionally managed to toss in a 'sire' here and there in his burblings, but everything about his demeanour -- and Arthur's, coming right down to it -- suggested they were nearer to equals than anything else. Whereas with Gwen, though he'd kissed her and professed his feelings for her, the social barrier that existed between them remained as impenetrable as ever; there were a few chinks here and there, but Arthur wasn't sure it would ever fully disappear, and its near tangibility made him hold back.
That, and the look on her face when Lancelot had left.
He could deny it all he liked, and had done, in fact, extrapolating Gwen's concern for him into evidence that she loved him. And maybe she did, in her own way, but Arthur knew, in the dead silence of the night, when his thoughts were most ruthless and lucid, that her heart was never fully in it because Lancelot had taken it away with him.
Letting that realisation take shape stung like failure and fissured his pride, so he shoved it aside, shoring hope and happy memories up against it. Some days it worked better than others.
Dropping into a chair, Arthur scrubbed a weary palm over his face, and then stood up again, abruptly. No good would come of sitting alone in his chambers and wallowing in a stew of doubt and fears. So he set out with no destination in mind, trailing through the corridors, fingers absently tapping the stonework and smoothing over embroidery whenever they encountered the occasional tapestry. Eventually his feet planted him underneath the 'Court Physician' sign, and Arthur considered it for a moment before following its directions to Gaius' quarters, knocking politely at the door and forgetting why he'd needed a distraction in the first place when Merlin, smiling, let him in.
Morgana opened her chamber doors to the sight of Leon conversing with Hector, the guard who relieved Leon at night ever since Uther deemed it necessary to keep Morgana under lock and key. Worry lines creased Leon's face, noticeable even in the dim candlelight, and Morgana wondered vaguely if she had anything to do with their appearance, her gut churning at the idea of causing him any sort of added stress. Two pairs of eyes turned to cast questioning glances in Morgana's direction, and she smiled contritely at them in response.
"Sir Leon, may I speak with you for a moment?"
He turned his gaze upon her, entreating, searching her expression for any outward signs of explanation, seeking out hidden meaning that he no doubt was beginning to be able to recognise with the amount of time they spent with one another as of late.
"Of course," he said, allowing Morgana to curl a hand around his arm and lead him away from Hector, out of earshot.
She wasted no time in reaching her point. "I need you to take me down to see the boy."
Confusion tinged his features. "The boy that was just sentenced to death for sorcery?" he asked, voice low.
"Yes."
Several questions bounced around at the back of his mind; she could see it behind his ever expressive eyes. "Are you sure that's the best idea, Morgana?"
There was obvious concern in his tone, and with anybody else, she might have taken offence at the implication that she was fragile, weak, incapable of handling such a mundane task as going to visit a prisoner in the dungeons. But somehow, with Leon, his apprehension read as earnest regard for her well-being, and she knew without even needing to have the conversation that in spite of this, he would not turn down her request.
"The boy is alone and probably frightened. There is nothing I can do to help him, but if there is any way I can assuage his fears, I'd like to try," Morgana said, her fingers squeezing his wrist. She cast her gaze towards the floor, studying her feet. "I know what it is to feel alone and helpless, and if I can offer him even a bit of comfort, I don't know how I can possibly ignore that."
Leon shifted on the spot anxiously, turning to glance back at Hector. "I'm supposed to be off-duty now. Perhaps Sir Hector could accompany you there in my stead?"
"No, I would rather not go with Hector," Morgana said, forceful beyond what was strictly necessary. The reality was that she had no valid reason to reject the suggestion, and in fact, it was ridiculous to even request that Leon join her when he was supposed to retire for the evening. And yet, the simple fact of the matter was that Morgana didn't want Hector to accompany her because he wasn't Leon. She trusted Leon, as much as Morgana could permit herself to trust anyone these days.
"What I mean to say is that I would prefer if you accompanied me to the dungeons." Morgana bit her lip thoughtfully. "I know that you no longer have a duty to me at this hour, and I apologise for attempting to infringe on your personal time, but I promise you that I won't be long." A pause. "Please, Leon." Her grip loosened around his wrist, and Morgana slid her fingers down until she was holding his hand in hers.
Leon's eyes darted down to their joined hands, then snapped back up, uncertainty playing across his features. It was hard to tell under the muted lighting, but his skin held a pink tinge to it, and she wondered idly if he was flushing.
"You know that none of those things are important, that I'm always available to you," he said softly.
He gently released his hand from her grasp and strode over to Hector, speaking in soft tones for several moments, before turning back to Morgana, indicating for her to follow him down the corridor.
The journey to the dungeons was a largely silent affair, Morgana sticking closer to Leon than propriety dictated, but some of the anxiety and frustration twisting in her gut stilled at his quiet, unassuming presence.
It came as no surprise to learn that the boy had exhausted himself from sobbing uncontrollably for the past several hours, to the point where he was barely lucid when she arrived. Curled up in a corner of the cell, he looked positively wretched -- skin deathly pale, cheeks hollow, eyes swollen, with tear tracks staining his face. The sight ate at Morgana's conscience and she felt ill at the vision of the young life that was to be extinguished so soon. She longed to reassure him, longed to help him escape, longed to take away some of the horror that must have been wracking his mind and body. But the sad reality was that there was nothing she could do, nothing she could say to ease his pain or prevent his death. All she could offer him was a kindness and an assurance that things would not always be this way, though it was an empty gesture at best.
Leon stood just outside the cell, hovering in a way that seemed almost protective. He also effectively kept the rest of the guards at bay, giving her and the boy some privacy, for which she couldn't have been more grateful. She was only able to spend about five minutes with him before it became obvious that he needed some sleep, and she felt like her words had been useless. Still, he had requested that she pass along a message to his family, and with tear-filled eyes Morgana silently nodded her agreement.
As they walked away from his cell, Morgana swallowed the sorrow and anger she felt, pushing it down until they were a safe distance from the dungeons.
"It's not fair. He's merely a young boy. His only crime was trying to heal his sister and now the family has lost another child," Morgana said, once they were free from the watchful eyes and ears of the dungeon guards, biting back the venomous tone attempting to claw its way into her voice. She trusted Leon, but had enough sense to recognise that she was venturing into treasonous territory by starting up this conversation in the first place. Morgana knew it would serve her well to remember that there were still boundaries to maintain, and permitting even a small amount of her disgust with Uther's philosophy on magic had the potential to unleash a whirlwind of trouble, if she wasn't careful.
Leon was quiet for quite some time, and then, "There is nothing worse than losing a family member." There was sadness there, beyond mere sympathy for the boy and his kin.
Morgana slowed her pace, brow furrowing. "You sound as if-- well, you sound as though you speak from experience," she said slowly, carefully, watching him for a reaction.
The suddenness with which he halted took Morgana by surprise, and she had to step to the side to prevent herself from running headlong into his shoulder. Leon turned to face her, lips pressed together in a straight line, expression guarded. "I lost my brother when I was just a boy myself," Leon admitted.
A hand flew to her mouth in surprise. "I'm so sorry." She stared up at him, and for the first time was struck with the knowledge that she couldn't figure out what was going through his mind; Leon was usually so open, so easy to read.
"It's all right. It was a long time ago," he said, smiling lightly. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
"That doesn't make the pain go away entirely, though," Morgana pointed out. She reached out to touch his arm, offering both her sympathy and understanding. "My father died more than ten years ago and I still miss him."
"It's something that never quite leaves you," he agreed.
Morgana allowed her hand to fall back to her side. She bit her lip. "May I ask... what happened to your brother?"
He stared at her blankly for a moment, as though lost in his own thoughts, before nodding. "He was murdered when I was twelve years old, coming home from the local pub. Two thieves tried to rob him, but when they realised he didn't have any coins, they decided to kill him instead."
"Oh, Leon, that's awful. Were they ever caught?"
Shaking his head, Leon released a soft sigh. "No. I mean, we had an idea of who they were, but there was no evidence, and so we couldn't do anything. I haven't seen either man since that day."
Biting back an entirely different kind of fury, Morgana frowned. "That must have been so difficult for your family. How do you deal with the anger and injustice of it all?"
He blinked, looking genuinely baffled by her comment. "I don't," he said, voice soft.
Now Morgana was confused. "You don't deal with it?"
"No, I meant that I don't have to deal with the anger, because I don't feel it any longer," he clarified.
"I don't understand." Truly she didn't. How could Leon know his brother had been murdered, be aware of who was responsible, and not be filled with rage?
One of Leon's hands rose to tangle briefly in his hair, eyes softening almost instantly. "Of course I was devastated by my brother's death. How could I not be? He was my hero and I looked up to him. In fact, he'd been training to become a knight, wanted to serve and protect the people of Camelot. It was his true aspiration in life." Morgana smiled softly in spite of herself. She could see the pride and love in Leon's eyes and it warmed her heart, even though she knew the story didn't have a happy ending.
"I spent several years rebelling, following Henry's death," Leon carried on. "If there was trouble to be found, it could be guaranteed that I was at the centre of it."
"Somehow I can't exactly picture you as a trouble-maker," Morgana said with a small laugh, tilting her head to the side and studying him with careful fascination. It was a bizarre feeling, slowly getting to know someone again. She and Leon had spent countless hours together over the past couple of weeks, but each time she learned something new about him, it felt almost like she was being handed a precious gift. Especially with something so personal as speaking of a murdered loved one. She highly suspected that this was not the sort of story he shared with just anyone, and she was touched at his openness with her.
His grin was so bright it lit up the hall they stood in. "You'd be surprised. I have a bit of a mischievous streak." And then he winked at her.
Something in his tone -- or perhaps it was the way he was looking at her -- caused Morgana's stomach to flip for just a moment. Shaking her head as though to clear it of stray thoughts, she smiled up at him. "I'll keep that in mind," she said. Then, remembering the point of their conversation, "So, what happened?"
The grin evaporated from his face, and Morgana was suddenly regretful that she'd pulled him back into these obviously painful memories once more. "I don't know, exactly. I managed to cause my parents great amounts of stress for a few years, and then one day I just decided that this wasn't how I wanted to live my life. It certainly wouldn't have made my brother proud. So I just gave up all the anger and the hurt and I made the choice to accept that this was how things were, that no amount of rebelling or revenge would bring me any peace."
This time it was Morgana's turn to blink at him in disbelief. "You just suddenly stopped being angry? You forgave the men who killed your brother?" She didn't mean it to sound like an accusation, but in the end, that was how it came across.
"Mm, forgiveness... I think I'm still sorting through that one, but I feel as though I've made peace with them in my own way." His gaze shifted to a spot on the wall over Morgana's shoulder, before he turned earnest eyes back to her. "As for the fury at my brother's loss, if there was one thing I learned, it was that it takes so much more time and energy to hate, to be filled with rage, than to forgive and to move on."
Forgiveness. The word, that concept seemed alien to her, and yet she could hear the conviction in his tone. He truly believed what he was saying, and she found herself almost unconsciously desiring to understand how it was that this man had been able to put aside his anger and sorrow to be able to forgive such an atrocity. She was no stranger to the idea of seeking retribution, of holding onto anger until it wrapped her in a chokehold, but if there was one thing she could say about Leon, it was that he was a man of great courage and conviction. Uther deserved what was coming to him, and yet... she felt drawn to try and comprehend how Leon had been able to deal with his brother's death and become the person he was today.
"How do you do that?" Morgana asked softly, curiously.
Silence reigned between them as Leon deeply contemplated her question. When he finally spoke, it was with deliberation and care, as though he were tailoring his words specifically for her. "It wasn't easy; some days it still isn't. But those first couple of years after Henry died, the only thing I thought about was seeking revenge, causing trouble, making every attempt to spread my anger to everyone I knew. I was consumed by it, and before I knew it, I'd managed to push away everyone that cared about me. My brother was a good person, and had the respect of everyone who had the pleasure of knowing him. One night, almost three years after he died, I had a dream in which Henry spoke to me, and he told me to stop behaving how I was, and to put aside my anger... to forgive the men who'd killed him, not for his sake but for my own."
Somewhere along the line, they had started walking again, slowly, down the corridor, though Morgana was only just realising this fact. "So a dream was what changed your mind in the end?"
Leon shook his head. "No, not exactly. I mean, I knew it was just a dream, but he still had a point. So I made the decision to forgive, to let go of my anger, and to stop trying to make everyone around me as miserable as I was." He smiled ruefully. "It wasn't easy. But now I look at my life and I'm so grateful that I don't have to carry that burden any longer. When I was still angry, it was all I thought about, and those thoughts controlled my life."
He couldn't possibly know what she was planning, the kind of pain and fury that was burning in her veins, and yet, he spoke with such an intimate understanding that she felt another layer of connectedness to him, even though they'd chosen different paths.
They arrived outside her chambers then, before Morgana could ask any follow-up questions. But something felt final about the conversation, and she was all right with that knowledge.
"Thank you for your kindness," she said, lingering in front of her door without attempting to actually move.
He smiled warmly. "You're welcome, Morgana."
Had Hector not been standing a mere few feet away from them, she might have pressed a kiss to Leon's cheek. But as it was, Hector remained, and so she settled for a warm smile instead. And as she closed the door on Leon's retreating form, she couldn't stop thinking of the condemned boy, or prevent the thought 'what if there's another way?' from tumbling around in her mind, slumber finally arriving hours later when she was too tired to think any longer.
Continue to Chapter Nine
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: 5,794
Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is being made. Please don't sue.
Authors' Note: Continued thanks to ravenflight21 for the beta/Brit-pick :).
Previous Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven
CHAPTER EIGHT
The fact that she'd seen this happen dozens of times before had no bearing on the visceral anger threatening to gush out of her in a slew of curses and fists. The court was gathered in the great hall, for no other reason than Uther liked to make an occasional spectacle of these things, and because he could.
On the other side of the king, Arthur shifted impatiently, uncomfortable in his chair and position, clearly waiting for a chance to voice his dissent, and Morgana loved him for it. For her part, for her deception, she could no longer speak her mind freely; not that it would be of much use if she ended up in the dungeons in restraints while the accused marched to the pyre.
This time, it was a boy, no older than fifteen by the look of him, though terrified enough to throw all sense of propriety to the wind and sob like a lost child crying for his mother.
Morgana, viciously, pressed her own distress down, locked it in a cage, made sure no trace of it could be seen on her face. At the back of the hall, Merlin had less luck wrestling his feelings into obedience, a white-knuckled restlessness tensing his whole body. She caught his eye, and for a brief moment there passed a shared understanding between them, two outsiders stealing through the doorway into a world that wanted nothing to do with them.
She hadn't forgiven him. She wasn't sure if she ever could, but she knew why he hid and why things had turned out like this between them. Still, uncertainty nagged at her at whether sparing his life was the right thing to do, especially when he'd had no qualms taking hers. Morgana tore her eyes away from him, feeling sick.
"This is absurd," Arthur said finally, interrupting the litany of charges flung at the boy in the middle of the room. "His sister was sick and he was only trying to help. Surely you can understand --"
Uther held up a silencing hand. "Sorcery is sorcery, however small," he said in a low voice. "And the law is not to be bent by whims. He knew the consequences when he undertook his treachery. Didn't you, boy?" He swept a hard look across the boy's head as though his presence could be scrubbed clean out of existence.
"Please, my lord," said the boy, a rattle of bones and desperation, "I only wished for my sister to get better; I promise, I promise I won't ever do it again. Please, my mum and dad, they need me -- the crops --" He hiccuped, choking over his own breath.
For a tiny moment, Morgana thought she saw the king soften, but perhaps it was only fanciful thinking; for someone who had been willing to sentence his oldest, most loyal friend to execution because of the unwarranted accusations of a quack witchfinder whose reputation preceded torture and death, of course a mere peasant boy stood no chance.
"I daresay you should have thought of that beforehand," Uther said, and motioned the guards to take the boy away.
As the court dissolved, a babble of murmurs and mutters rising to keep the sound of the boy's cries at bay, Arthur leapt to his feet, and Morgana willed him forward with all the withering hope left in her heart.
"Father, you can't do this; he's just a boy, for god's sake."
It sounded familiar, and it was; it was like watching the same scene from a play over and over again.
"Enough, Arthur. You know the law as well as I do; we cannot make exceptions," Uther said, with a laboured weariness that heated Morgana's resentment to a boil. "And might I remind you that I will not have my authority undermined in my own court."
The same actors, the same ending.
Morgana watched silently as Uther strode out of the hall with the finality of someone who always gets the last word, leaving Arthur to look ruefully after him and then gather the pieces of a disappointed son and shape them into a prince.
"Come on," he said quietly to Merlin, who had yet to stop radiating wretchedness from his little corner of the room, "I feel like having some target practice."
No one had ever accused Morgana of being particularly observant, but the gesture, small as it was and nearly insignificant, caught her attention immediately. Arthur was tactile in a way that often caused mild injury -- a clap on the back after a good joke, a cuff on the shoulder for encouragement, a swat with the flat of his sword for not paying attention -- but his hand on the small of Merlin's back as he ushered them out of the hall, it was something different entirely, protective, and maybe even proprietary.
He obviously didn't know about Merlin's magic, or Merlin wouldn't have looked so horrible and pallid, and she wondered how hard Arthur would fight for him if it was Merlin on his knees in front of the king. She wondered how hard Arthur would fight for her.
No matter, Morgana thought to herself, her gaze sweeping over the empty room. She'd make sure he'd never have to.
Camelot's struggle with sorcery had gone on as long as he could remember; there were dim recollections of burnings and beheadings carefully scheduled during his lessons, when he'd be shut up in the castle doing sums while blood flowed across the flagstones, and then a rather clearer memory of Gaius arguing, in his understated, subservient manner that never amounted to much dissent at all, with Uther about making Arthur attend his first public execution at the age of nine. He'd ended up squeezing his eyes shut during it, the collective gasp of the crowd more than enough to bear at the time, though he'd known full well he ought to have been brave about it, as instructed. But then, Uther's instructions often didn't sink as deep as he expected.
It would have been easier, maybe, if the years of Uther banging on about the evils of sorcery had instilled the same manner in Arthur; at least then he wouldn't have the small voice always tugging at him, telling him that his father, who was strong and mighty and wise, was also wrong.
And it had troubled him enough this time, losing the battle yet again against his father's bullheadedness, that as soon as he and Merlin had had a private moment while setting up the archery targets, Arthur declared that things would change once he ascended to the throne.
He meant every word, though, for reasons he hadn't the wherewithal to explore at the moment, he wasn't sure why he'd had to make such a point of it to Merlin, of all people, who often missed the point of things even if they poked him in the eye; such admissions were dangerous -- treasonous, even, if they caught Uther on a bad day. All Arthur knew for certain was that one day he would put an end to this blind fury against magic; that Merlin happened to be there when Arthur had set the thought to words -- coincidence.
It definitely wouldn't be the last among many, Arthur thought wryly to himself, as he wended his way through the castle now, left to his own devices while Merlin attended to his apprenticeship duties. Merlin seemed to collect coincidences as an avid hobby; if they added up to something more concrete Arthur hadn't seen it yet, though he had his theories. Or just the one theory, which made absolute sense when he put his memories together end to end, and seemed like the mad ravings of a drunkard when he thought of Merlin and his allergy to doing anything right.
But then there were a lot of things about Merlin that reconciled about as neatly as pieces from a dozen different puzzles. Even physically, he seemed to have been fashioned from an overabundance of angles and elbows and clothed by an indecisive child; he was intuitive to a fault when it came to Arthur's needs except involving anything to do with cleanliness; he never shut up apart from the times when extracting a single word from him was as exhausting as a week-long hunting trip; his smile was as bright as the sun except he never used it anymore.
It wasn't difficult to tell when something was bothering Merlin, though, in this case, it wasn't so much that something was bothering him as harassing him within an inch of his life and deriving great pleasure from it. And if whatever was bothering him happened to be a whomever, Arthur would have no compunction about banishing the interloper to the next life and beyond, but he had no clue what was weighing on Merlin's heart, and this was clearly one of those times Merlin wouldn't say a word in spite of Arthur's repeated needling. The best he could do, and it wasn't nearly enough, was to pay attention and make sure he was listening should Merlin decide to let him in on it.
Perhaps he had gone too far with his prattle about guardian angels, trying to goad Merlin into answering a question he didn't really need an answer to. He'd stopped short of asking it outright, partly because he was afraid of being wrong, but mostly because he didn't know what he would do if he was right. At present, all he had was speculation, and that wasn't anything that needed to be acted on; if he had confirmation, however, everything would change irrevocably, and what that would mean for him and Merlin was something he didn't want to think about. His one consolation was that he wasn't what was causing Merlin's melancholy, because that cloud had been hanging over Merlin's head for months now, but his comments and prying probably hadn't helped, and Arthur suddenly wished he'd never said anything at all.
Arthur sighed softly to himself as he passed through the castle, half-wishing he could return to the days when servants were just servants and didn't do awful things like crawl under his skin and curl up and nestle there like they belonged.
He rounded a corner to find Gwen pacing along the corridor outside his chambers, worrying her sleeves between her fingers. A pang of guilt struck a sour note in him as he realised he hadn't thought of her for days. "Gwen," he said. "Is everything all right?"
"Oh!" she said, startled at the sound of his voice. "Yes, everything's fine. I think. It's just -- have you seen Morgana recently?"
"Why? Did you misplace her?"
Gwen granted him a smile at this, the sort of indulgent expression a mother might bestow upon a sweetly silly child. "I've just come away from her chambers and left her in Sir Leon's good hands," she said, playing along as though Arthur's question had been remotely serious. Her smile faded, however, as Arthur strode up to her. "I wonder if -- if we could talk?"
Not at all liking the restlessness that crossed her gentle features, Arthur extended an arm, sweeping her into his chambers with a wide gesture. "Of course, anything."
"Have you noticed --" Gwen began, and stopped herself, as though she had been about to say something that ought not be said, fingers drifting over her lips like they could hide her words.
"What is it?"
"My lady has been acting a bit strange lately," she said, the end of her statement rising into a near question, seeking validation.
Arthur shrugged; the truth was that he'd been so preoccupied, first with trailing after Morgana's assailants and then coming home with his head stuffed so full of thoughts of Merlin that there wasn't space for anything else, he hadn't had the time to notice much. "In what way?" he asked.
Gwen's cheeks stained with a blush. "Maybe it's nothing," she hastened to say, but the slight furrow of her brow showed quite plainly that, as far as she was concerned, it was a lot more than nothing. "I don't think I've done anything wrong... but she doesn't talk to me like she used to; she keeps everything to herself now."
Arthur tried not to raise an eyebrow, and from the way Gwen's mouth twisted as soon as she finished speaking, she herself was aware that what she'd just said didn't sound critically urgent at all and more like a bit of a sulk.
"Look," said Arthur, attempting a voice of reason, "she's been through a lot in the past few months; it'll take her some time to adjust. I'm sure she'll be back to her old self soon enough."
"No, of course, I know. Absolutely, yes," Gwen said hurriedly. She flicked her eyes up at him and averted her gaze just as quickly. "But it's not just that. Her behaviour around the king... It's almost..."
Arthur nodded once, encouragingly. Under the best of circumstances Gwen had a tendency to let her words knot themselves up.
She bit her lip. "... Unseemly?"
"What," Arthur asked slowly, "do you mean?"
Gwen gestured in a vague, helpless manner. "Well, they seem a bit -- extremely -- fond of each other," she said, tilting her head meaningfully.
"Guinevere," Arthur interjected, a little more sharply than he intended. But if she was insinuating what he thought she was insinuating, then all the tight-voiced denial in the world wouldn't even begin to erase the horrid idea of -- the thing she was insinuating.
Morgana and his father? Preposterous. Of course, he knew they loved each other, but it was in a very familial sort of way, not -- the other one. He could barely voice it to himself; the very idea of it was appalling. Morgana had come under Uther's care as a child and grown up in the Pendragon household as a part of the family, as a daughter and sister and -- all right, perhaps lots of people had expected Arthur and Morgana to marry some day, but that was all fanciful, useless talk, and besides, he'd got over his attraction to her a long time ago. It wasn't his fault they'd always been thrown in each other's company, and the pale, lanky, moody girl who'd arrived at their doors years ago had eventually discovered how to be downright stunning instead. And anyway that had only lasted for a bit; whatever beauty had been bestowed upon her by the gods had been cancelled out by the fact that it had no impact whatsoever on her ability to be a bossy, smug sibling who always knew, in a very loud and pushy sort of way, what was best for him. In other words, her place in the family was sealed. To imply that her affection for Uther, or vice versa, was anything more was simply ridiculous.
Arthur shook his head to clear away the debris of memories and what-ifs. "Gwen, where did you hear this nonsense?" he asked, and regretted the question immediately. He knew she wasn't one for idle gossip, and even if she were, would never be so stupid as to repeat it to him.
"I didn't," she said, drawing herself up slightly. Her eyes remained downcast, though he wasn't sure if she was too insulted to look at him or if her servile instincts were kicking in. "I apologise for taking up your time, my lord."
As she walked out of his chambers, Arthur looked after her helplessly, wondering if he should call her back. But he knew it wouldn't do any good; she'd come to him in confidence and he'd basically accused her of slagging off his family from the outset. Besides, he wasn't sure he believed her in the first place, and they'd probably only end up arguing -- or, at least, he'd tell her she was imagining things and she'd look at him unconvinced but say, Yes, I'm sure you're right, my lord anyway, because despite what tender words passed between them during the quiet moments before a battle or under the highs of victory, more often than not, they still treated each other as the rules of rank required them to do.
And it might not have made a difference to Arthur's thinking, the apparent necessity to maintain appearances with Gwen, had he not had Merlin constantly tumbling through his rooms and his consciousness to throw all sense of propriety out the window. He did his chores, sure enough, and occasionally managed to toss in a 'sire' here and there in his burblings, but everything about his demeanour -- and Arthur's, coming right down to it -- suggested they were nearer to equals than anything else. Whereas with Gwen, though he'd kissed her and professed his feelings for her, the social barrier that existed between them remained as impenetrable as ever; there were a few chinks here and there, but Arthur wasn't sure it would ever fully disappear, and its near tangibility made him hold back.
That, and the look on her face when Lancelot had left.
He could deny it all he liked, and had done, in fact, extrapolating Gwen's concern for him into evidence that she loved him. And maybe she did, in her own way, but Arthur knew, in the dead silence of the night, when his thoughts were most ruthless and lucid, that her heart was never fully in it because Lancelot had taken it away with him.
Letting that realisation take shape stung like failure and fissured his pride, so he shoved it aside, shoring hope and happy memories up against it. Some days it worked better than others.
Dropping into a chair, Arthur scrubbed a weary palm over his face, and then stood up again, abruptly. No good would come of sitting alone in his chambers and wallowing in a stew of doubt and fears. So he set out with no destination in mind, trailing through the corridors, fingers absently tapping the stonework and smoothing over embroidery whenever they encountered the occasional tapestry. Eventually his feet planted him underneath the 'Court Physician' sign, and Arthur considered it for a moment before following its directions to Gaius' quarters, knocking politely at the door and forgetting why he'd needed a distraction in the first place when Merlin, smiling, let him in.
Morgana opened her chamber doors to the sight of Leon conversing with Hector, the guard who relieved Leon at night ever since Uther deemed it necessary to keep Morgana under lock and key. Worry lines creased Leon's face, noticeable even in the dim candlelight, and Morgana wondered vaguely if she had anything to do with their appearance, her gut churning at the idea of causing him any sort of added stress. Two pairs of eyes turned to cast questioning glances in Morgana's direction, and she smiled contritely at them in response.
"Sir Leon, may I speak with you for a moment?"
He turned his gaze upon her, entreating, searching her expression for any outward signs of explanation, seeking out hidden meaning that he no doubt was beginning to be able to recognise with the amount of time they spent with one another as of late.
"Of course," he said, allowing Morgana to curl a hand around his arm and lead him away from Hector, out of earshot.
She wasted no time in reaching her point. "I need you to take me down to see the boy."
Confusion tinged his features. "The boy that was just sentenced to death for sorcery?" he asked, voice low.
"Yes."
Several questions bounced around at the back of his mind; she could see it behind his ever expressive eyes. "Are you sure that's the best idea, Morgana?"
There was obvious concern in his tone, and with anybody else, she might have taken offence at the implication that she was fragile, weak, incapable of handling such a mundane task as going to visit a prisoner in the dungeons. But somehow, with Leon, his apprehension read as earnest regard for her well-being, and she knew without even needing to have the conversation that in spite of this, he would not turn down her request.
"The boy is alone and probably frightened. There is nothing I can do to help him, but if there is any way I can assuage his fears, I'd like to try," Morgana said, her fingers squeezing his wrist. She cast her gaze towards the floor, studying her feet. "I know what it is to feel alone and helpless, and if I can offer him even a bit of comfort, I don't know how I can possibly ignore that."
Leon shifted on the spot anxiously, turning to glance back at Hector. "I'm supposed to be off-duty now. Perhaps Sir Hector could accompany you there in my stead?"
"No, I would rather not go with Hector," Morgana said, forceful beyond what was strictly necessary. The reality was that she had no valid reason to reject the suggestion, and in fact, it was ridiculous to even request that Leon join her when he was supposed to retire for the evening. And yet, the simple fact of the matter was that Morgana didn't want Hector to accompany her because he wasn't Leon. She trusted Leon, as much as Morgana could permit herself to trust anyone these days.
"What I mean to say is that I would prefer if you accompanied me to the dungeons." Morgana bit her lip thoughtfully. "I know that you no longer have a duty to me at this hour, and I apologise for attempting to infringe on your personal time, but I promise you that I won't be long." A pause. "Please, Leon." Her grip loosened around his wrist, and Morgana slid her fingers down until she was holding his hand in hers.
Leon's eyes darted down to their joined hands, then snapped back up, uncertainty playing across his features. It was hard to tell under the muted lighting, but his skin held a pink tinge to it, and she wondered idly if he was flushing.
"You know that none of those things are important, that I'm always available to you," he said softly.
He gently released his hand from her grasp and strode over to Hector, speaking in soft tones for several moments, before turning back to Morgana, indicating for her to follow him down the corridor.
The journey to the dungeons was a largely silent affair, Morgana sticking closer to Leon than propriety dictated, but some of the anxiety and frustration twisting in her gut stilled at his quiet, unassuming presence.
It came as no surprise to learn that the boy had exhausted himself from sobbing uncontrollably for the past several hours, to the point where he was barely lucid when she arrived. Curled up in a corner of the cell, he looked positively wretched -- skin deathly pale, cheeks hollow, eyes swollen, with tear tracks staining his face. The sight ate at Morgana's conscience and she felt ill at the vision of the young life that was to be extinguished so soon. She longed to reassure him, longed to help him escape, longed to take away some of the horror that must have been wracking his mind and body. But the sad reality was that there was nothing she could do, nothing she could say to ease his pain or prevent his death. All she could offer him was a kindness and an assurance that things would not always be this way, though it was an empty gesture at best.
Leon stood just outside the cell, hovering in a way that seemed almost protective. He also effectively kept the rest of the guards at bay, giving her and the boy some privacy, for which she couldn't have been more grateful. She was only able to spend about five minutes with him before it became obvious that he needed some sleep, and she felt like her words had been useless. Still, he had requested that she pass along a message to his family, and with tear-filled eyes Morgana silently nodded her agreement.
As they walked away from his cell, Morgana swallowed the sorrow and anger she felt, pushing it down until they were a safe distance from the dungeons.
"It's not fair. He's merely a young boy. His only crime was trying to heal his sister and now the family has lost another child," Morgana said, once they were free from the watchful eyes and ears of the dungeon guards, biting back the venomous tone attempting to claw its way into her voice. She trusted Leon, but had enough sense to recognise that she was venturing into treasonous territory by starting up this conversation in the first place. Morgana knew it would serve her well to remember that there were still boundaries to maintain, and permitting even a small amount of her disgust with Uther's philosophy on magic had the potential to unleash a whirlwind of trouble, if she wasn't careful.
Leon was quiet for quite some time, and then, "There is nothing worse than losing a family member." There was sadness there, beyond mere sympathy for the boy and his kin.
Morgana slowed her pace, brow furrowing. "You sound as if-- well, you sound as though you speak from experience," she said slowly, carefully, watching him for a reaction.
The suddenness with which he halted took Morgana by surprise, and she had to step to the side to prevent herself from running headlong into his shoulder. Leon turned to face her, lips pressed together in a straight line, expression guarded. "I lost my brother when I was just a boy myself," Leon admitted.
A hand flew to her mouth in surprise. "I'm so sorry." She stared up at him, and for the first time was struck with the knowledge that she couldn't figure out what was going through his mind; Leon was usually so open, so easy to read.
"It's all right. It was a long time ago," he said, smiling lightly. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
"That doesn't make the pain go away entirely, though," Morgana pointed out. She reached out to touch his arm, offering both her sympathy and understanding. "My father died more than ten years ago and I still miss him."
"It's something that never quite leaves you," he agreed.
Morgana allowed her hand to fall back to her side. She bit her lip. "May I ask... what happened to your brother?"
He stared at her blankly for a moment, as though lost in his own thoughts, before nodding. "He was murdered when I was twelve years old, coming home from the local pub. Two thieves tried to rob him, but when they realised he didn't have any coins, they decided to kill him instead."
"Oh, Leon, that's awful. Were they ever caught?"
Shaking his head, Leon released a soft sigh. "No. I mean, we had an idea of who they were, but there was no evidence, and so we couldn't do anything. I haven't seen either man since that day."
Biting back an entirely different kind of fury, Morgana frowned. "That must have been so difficult for your family. How do you deal with the anger and injustice of it all?"
He blinked, looking genuinely baffled by her comment. "I don't," he said, voice soft.
Now Morgana was confused. "You don't deal with it?"
"No, I meant that I don't have to deal with the anger, because I don't feel it any longer," he clarified.
"I don't understand." Truly she didn't. How could Leon know his brother had been murdered, be aware of who was responsible, and not be filled with rage?
One of Leon's hands rose to tangle briefly in his hair, eyes softening almost instantly. "Of course I was devastated by my brother's death. How could I not be? He was my hero and I looked up to him. In fact, he'd been training to become a knight, wanted to serve and protect the people of Camelot. It was his true aspiration in life." Morgana smiled softly in spite of herself. She could see the pride and love in Leon's eyes and it warmed her heart, even though she knew the story didn't have a happy ending.
"I spent several years rebelling, following Henry's death," Leon carried on. "If there was trouble to be found, it could be guaranteed that I was at the centre of it."
"Somehow I can't exactly picture you as a trouble-maker," Morgana said with a small laugh, tilting her head to the side and studying him with careful fascination. It was a bizarre feeling, slowly getting to know someone again. She and Leon had spent countless hours together over the past couple of weeks, but each time she learned something new about him, it felt almost like she was being handed a precious gift. Especially with something so personal as speaking of a murdered loved one. She highly suspected that this was not the sort of story he shared with just anyone, and she was touched at his openness with her.
His grin was so bright it lit up the hall they stood in. "You'd be surprised. I have a bit of a mischievous streak." And then he winked at her.
Something in his tone -- or perhaps it was the way he was looking at her -- caused Morgana's stomach to flip for just a moment. Shaking her head as though to clear it of stray thoughts, she smiled up at him. "I'll keep that in mind," she said. Then, remembering the point of their conversation, "So, what happened?"
The grin evaporated from his face, and Morgana was suddenly regretful that she'd pulled him back into these obviously painful memories once more. "I don't know, exactly. I managed to cause my parents great amounts of stress for a few years, and then one day I just decided that this wasn't how I wanted to live my life. It certainly wouldn't have made my brother proud. So I just gave up all the anger and the hurt and I made the choice to accept that this was how things were, that no amount of rebelling or revenge would bring me any peace."
This time it was Morgana's turn to blink at him in disbelief. "You just suddenly stopped being angry? You forgave the men who killed your brother?" She didn't mean it to sound like an accusation, but in the end, that was how it came across.
"Mm, forgiveness... I think I'm still sorting through that one, but I feel as though I've made peace with them in my own way." His gaze shifted to a spot on the wall over Morgana's shoulder, before he turned earnest eyes back to her. "As for the fury at my brother's loss, if there was one thing I learned, it was that it takes so much more time and energy to hate, to be filled with rage, than to forgive and to move on."
Forgiveness. The word, that concept seemed alien to her, and yet she could hear the conviction in his tone. He truly believed what he was saying, and she found herself almost unconsciously desiring to understand how it was that this man had been able to put aside his anger and sorrow to be able to forgive such an atrocity. She was no stranger to the idea of seeking retribution, of holding onto anger until it wrapped her in a chokehold, but if there was one thing she could say about Leon, it was that he was a man of great courage and conviction. Uther deserved what was coming to him, and yet... she felt drawn to try and comprehend how Leon had been able to deal with his brother's death and become the person he was today.
"How do you do that?" Morgana asked softly, curiously.
Silence reigned between them as Leon deeply contemplated her question. When he finally spoke, it was with deliberation and care, as though he were tailoring his words specifically for her. "It wasn't easy; some days it still isn't. But those first couple of years after Henry died, the only thing I thought about was seeking revenge, causing trouble, making every attempt to spread my anger to everyone I knew. I was consumed by it, and before I knew it, I'd managed to push away everyone that cared about me. My brother was a good person, and had the respect of everyone who had the pleasure of knowing him. One night, almost three years after he died, I had a dream in which Henry spoke to me, and he told me to stop behaving how I was, and to put aside my anger... to forgive the men who'd killed him, not for his sake but for my own."
Somewhere along the line, they had started walking again, slowly, down the corridor, though Morgana was only just realising this fact. "So a dream was what changed your mind in the end?"
Leon shook his head. "No, not exactly. I mean, I knew it was just a dream, but he still had a point. So I made the decision to forgive, to let go of my anger, and to stop trying to make everyone around me as miserable as I was." He smiled ruefully. "It wasn't easy. But now I look at my life and I'm so grateful that I don't have to carry that burden any longer. When I was still angry, it was all I thought about, and those thoughts controlled my life."
He couldn't possibly know what she was planning, the kind of pain and fury that was burning in her veins, and yet, he spoke with such an intimate understanding that she felt another layer of connectedness to him, even though they'd chosen different paths.
They arrived outside her chambers then, before Morgana could ask any follow-up questions. But something felt final about the conversation, and she was all right with that knowledge.
"Thank you for your kindness," she said, lingering in front of her door without attempting to actually move.
He smiled warmly. "You're welcome, Morgana."
Had Hector not been standing a mere few feet away from them, she might have pressed a kiss to Leon's cheek. But as it was, Hector remained, and so she settled for a warm smile instead. And as she closed the door on Leon's retreating form, she couldn't stop thinking of the condemned boy, or prevent the thought 'what if there's another way?' from tumbling around in her mind, slumber finally arriving hours later when she was too tired to think any longer.
Continue to Chapter Nine