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Uther’s biggest mistake was in telling Arthur he should learn all he can about his enemies, because to know your enemy is to know how to defeat them. Then he told Arthur that the greatest evil of this land was magic. Surely Uther had no idea what his words would lead to, but a young, eager to please Prince Arthur rushed to employ his father’s advice. All he wanted was his father to look at him like Arthur had done something right and clever. Maybe Arthur would be able to find some trick in it all that would let them detect sorcerers, so they could root out the whole lot of them finally.
So Arthur went to the library and read every book on magic he could find, which was woefully few. The librarian wouldn’t let him read the books on dark magic, though those were surely the most important ones, Arthur thought. All the books he was given were for common magic, for magical creatures and healing remedies, and Arthur was sure this wasn’t the evils of magic his father always talked about. Frustrated, he went to his tutors, who told him yet again that magic was strictly evil and there was no need to study it further. Arthur nearly had a conniption right there and then. How was he to defeat magic if he barely knew anything about it? Someone must be able to tell him more, must be able to instruct him in the ancient ways.
He ends up asking Gaius, who knows everything about everything. Arthur sometimes wishes his tutors could be replaced by Gaius, because Gaius seems to know lots more useful information than his tutors actually do. He’s told stories about the old days of magic by Gaius, and they’re kind of… fantastic. Dragons swooping through the skies, sorcerers working to heal villages, people using magic in their everyday lives.
Still, surely this can’t be the magic his father is always talking about. His father says that magic is evil, that it killed Arthur’s mother, that anyone who practices it is corrupted. Yet when Arthur finally asks Gaius, the words Gaius tells him stick in his brain for the next few years. He puzzles them at night, in the middle of sparring practice, at breakfast and dinner and everything in between.
“Gaius,” Arthur asks, his voice still thin and reedy like the voice of all thirteen year old boys, “Father says all magic is evil. But I haven’t been able to find anything about magic being evil. All the books I’ve read and the stories you’ve told me just describe magic like it’s a tool.”
Gaius shuffles where he sits, looking pensive as he considers his answer. Gaius is the master of looking pensive. “Arthur, magic has been around a very long time. It can be used for evil, or it can be used for good. Your father believes magic corrupts people who use it, but in truth it is evil people who corrupt magic. Magic is simply a tool. It cannot act on its own. If the people using magic are good, then magic will be good. If the people using magic are evil, then magic will be evil. Do you believe the people of Camelot are evil?”
“No!” Arthur yells, indignant even at the suggestion. “The people of Camelot are good, loyal subjects. They are ours to protect.”
“And yet the good people of Camelot quite often have magic,” Gaius says. “Why do you think that is?”
“Well…” Arthur falters. If what Gaius is suggesting is true, has his father been wrong about magic? Arthur can’t imagine his father being wrong about anything, but… the people of Camelot are good and true. If they were to use magic, Arthur can’t imagine them using it for evil purposes. Maybe magic is just like a sword. It can be used to protect, or it can be used to harm. He remembers his instructor in swordsmanship drilling him on the differences between the two. Arthur is a knight, and he uses his sword to protect those weaker than him. Maybe the people of Camelot can wield magic in the same way, to protect those weaker than them.
But his father can’t just be wrong about magic. If it was that simple, then why are they burning all these people at the stake?
Arthur’s head spins, and he feels like he’s been dealt a physical blow to his chest. He doesn’t say another word to Gaius, only stands with a start and turns on his heel to leave. It’s rude and improper, especially to someone who is only trying to help him, but Arthur feels petulant and spiteful. Why would Gaius say such things to him? Why would Gaius complicate things this was? Arthur suddenly had so much to think about, things he’s never had to think about before.
Is magic truly wrong?
Arthur grew up alongside Morgana. Her father and his were good friends, and it felt practically like Morgana never spent any time in her own home. Her room in Camelot was very clearly no longer a guest room, dressed in shades of purple and red, her favourite colours. Morgana’s always been more clever than Arthur, and she used to run circles around him, tricking him into getting her sweets from the kitchen and then manipulating him into taking the fall for her when she steals a sword from the armory. He followed along behind her, always eager to help her with her latest plot. Morgana was fun, and exciting, and always knew exactly what to say to get them out of trouble. Arthur considered her his greatest friend. When she said she wanted to learn to use a sword, he led her to his favourite way to escape the castle and taught her all he knew through the night. When he said that the squire boys called him lame for hanging out with a girl, Morgana flew into such a rage that Arthur could only stand by and watch as she punched a squire boy to the ground and set her petite little foot on his chest for good measure.
She was the strongest person he knew, aside from his dad.
Then they got older, and everything started getting worse. Arthur had to spend more time with the knights, because they all said he had a great talent with the sword, and he wanted to work on it. Morgana wanted to train alongside him, but everyone said she couldn’t because she was a girl. Arthur didn’t understand. She was just as good at using a sword as he was. Was there something about girls then? Were they supposed to be weaker? Arthur had never seen a woman amongst the knights. They always talked of woman like they were childish, whining creatures. Morgana had never been like that, but Arthur listened to everything the knights said, because his father told him he was supposed to be learning from them.
The first time he repeated something one of the knights had said about women being weaker to Morgana, she slapped him across the face harder than any of the knights ever had, and refused to speak to him for a week.
His cheek smarted, and he missed Morgana, and training was hard, and Arthur got petulant and stopped hanging out with her so much after that. The younger knight boys were good enough friends anyways, even if they weren’t nearly as clever or strong as Morgana was. If she wanted to hit him around and be upset, she could be upset. Arthur wasn’t going to apologize to her. That’s not what men did to women, the knights said.
Then they got older again, Morgana’s dad died and she came to live with them permanently, and suddenly everyone talked about Morgana like she was some kind of meal to be eaten. It was weird and gross and Arthur hated it. Morgana wasn’t a piece of food. She wasn’t delectable. She wasn’t appetizing. She was a human being. Arthur understood why they were all saying it. Morgana was beautiful, and she dressed in a way that showed she knew it. But to hear all the knights turn their talk onto his oldest friend, his childhood role model… Knowing she would slap them silly if she heard the talk herself, that she could best them all in combat with a sword. It just… it wasn’t Morgana, who they were talking about. It was just her body, her clothes. It disgusted Arthur in a way he couldn’t even articulate. When he made it clear how he felt about it, the knights stopped talking about her, at least around Arthur.
Still, even now, years after they’d stopped plotting together and talking about their secrets to each other, Arthur misses her. Morgana talks more to Uther now than Arthur, full of indignant rage at the way sorcerors are treated, full of rage at the way Uther dismisses the rights of the common people, using her position to voice the thoughts of the smaller folk. Arthur doesn’t know how she does it. He fears his father’s disapproval more than anything, and Morgana bears it every day like it is a stunning new hairpiece to flaunt at court. He wishes he could be more like her. Defender of the common folk, of the hated, of the suffering.
Knights are meant to protect those weaker than them.
Arthur sometimes thinks Morgana would have been the best knight of them all, if only she wasn’t a women, and Uther let her raise her sword.
Merlin is like a breath of fresh air in the cyclical nature of Arthur’s days. He’s incompetent, yes, a country bumpkin, but he’s got a new take on things. In the best and worst of ways, he reminds Arthur of Morgana. Always willing to call Arthur out on his brutishness. Clever with his words. Taunting, mocking. Seeming to see through Arthur in a way that no one else can.
Arthur thinks that if the two of them worked together, they could turn Camelot on its head.
Merlin is unlike Morgana in that he can barely hold a sword off the ground, in that his limbs shake holding a stack of books, in that he doesn’t seem to hold a spiteful bone in his body. Arthur thinks it would be terribly funny to have Morgana try and teach Merlin a bit of swordsmanship, while he and Gwen sat to the side and perhaps ate some strawberries. Arthur likes Gwen. She’s stable, kind, a little awkward but in the best kind of way. Privately he thinks she and Morgana balance each other out perfectly, and he’s glad for her presence.
Still, there’s something Merlin has that Morgana lacks.
First, there is the sorceress who tries to sing Arthur to death, and Merlin somehow knocking Arthur out of the way. Merlin being the only person in the entire hall who didn’t fall under the sorceress’ spell.
Then, bare days later, there is Merlin telling Arthur that the knight Valiant’s shield is magical. Arthur is furious when Merlin loses their proof, when he is humiliated and it is entirely Merlin’s fault, but still he believes Merlin. He goes into the ring prepared to leave on a stretcher, dying from poison, and instead the snakes come shooting out of the shield in full view of everyone. Arthur’s word is redeemed. His honour comes back into place before the court. Merlin nodding off the rest of the day, like he was up the entire night working on something.
Weeks pass without Merlin doing anything strange at all. Arthur has time to adjust to him, to get to know him, to resign himself to this strange, disrespectful manservant.
Then the plague comes to Camelot. Arthur is desperate for a way to save his people, to stop this creeping illness, and Merlin provides it. Somehow, Gwen’s father is saved. Somehow, Merlin discovers what is causing the plague. Somehow, Arthur defeats this magical beast, in the caverns below Camelot, with Morgana and Merlin by his side.
As the beast dissolves before them, Arthur and Morgana meet eyes, and have the same thought confirmed at the exact same time.
Merlin is a sorcerer.
Maybe in another life, Arthur would have reported Merlin to Uther immediately. He would have been glad to see his incompetent manservant burn on the pyre, moving on with his life without a smudge on his conscious.
Except, years ago, Gaius asked Arthur if he thought the people of Camelot, who have magic, were bad people. He told Arthur that magic is simply a tool. That how it is used depends on the person using it.
So Arthur says nothing to Uther. He watches Gwen go free and Merlin delight in her freedom, like a burden has slid off his shoulders. Tries to imagine a future where Merlin turns his magic on Camelot, and cannot imagine one at all.
When it is all over, and the hubbub has died down, Arthur catches Morgana’s eye and gestures for her to slip away with him into his chambers. It’s far from proper for the two of them to be alone these days, what with all the rumours about the two of them being in love- for god’s sake, they’re practically siblings, when will people shut up about that- but this is important enough to damn the consequences.
Morgana is glamorous as usual in her appearance, dressed in her most recent favourite- a royal blue gown with gold details, her hair done up in perfect curls. She looks like the pampered ward of Uther Pendragon. Arthur knows that in comparison, he practically looks like a commoner. From far away, no one could tell how fine the fabric of his clothes are.
“So,” Arthur begins when the door swings closed behind her, suddenly uncomfortable with the way Morgana’s eyes cut through him. As they always have. “We should talk.”
“About what? Your questionable fashion choices? How you almost let Gwen go to the pyre for something she clearly didn’t do? How your manservant is a sorcerer?” Morgana moves as she talks, gracefully lowering herself into the chair before Arthur’s desk, then proceeding to examine her nails. As if the topics presented are boring. Her voice is accusatory, spiteful, as usual. She always has a reason to be upset with him these days.
“Morgana.” Arthur says, looking at her as seriously as he ever has. She stares back at him, raising a single eyebrow, unimpressed with his attempt at maturity. Sighing, Arthur closes his eyes. “I tried as hard as I could to save Gwen, you know that. If Merlin hadn’t found out about the creature in the water source, I would have helped you in any endeavour to break Gwen out of the dungeons. Even if she is a sorcerer, she doesn’t deserve to die just for healing her father. And my fashion is fine, thank you very much.”
Morgana’s snort lets him know what she thinks of that. “Arthur, you dress like a knight.”
“What’s wrong with dressing like a knight?” Arthur asks, offended on behalf of all knights everywhere.
“There’s nothing wrong with dressing like a knight. Unless you’re a prince.” Morgana looks him up and down, raising a judgemental eyebrow. “Have you ever thought of wearing something velvet? Something elegant?”
“I don’t need to be elegant, I need to be able to move freely!” Arthur can hear himself getting louder. He’s being taunted by her and falling for it, but he can’t bring himself to stop. “I’m hardly you, able to sit around all day combing my hair!”
“If that’s what you think I do all day, you have less of a grasp of the people around you than I thought. I’m amazed you even picked up that Merlin has magic, with those sort of observation skills.” Morgana’s tone belies none of her anger, but Arthur knows his words must have had some sort of impact. Only three years ago, she would have picked up the nearest throwable object and thrown it at him for that kind of remark. There’s no way she’s that mature now. It’s still just Morgana. She may be more clever than him, and possibly braver than him, but never in the mix did she have an ounce of self restraint.
Arthur takes a deep breath, trying to regain control of his own maturity. She’s right. He’s a prince. A prince cannot lose his head at any snide insult. A prince must know how to negotiate, even with the most difficult parties. A prince who rushes to petty violence before diplomacy will get all of his people killed in pointless wars. A prince should be able to handle Morgana. “Look. I didn’t ask you here just to fight with you. We were close once. I know we have grown apart, and this is the only way we talk to each other now, but I ask that you put petty feuds aside for today. Merlin having magic is a serious matter. We’re talking of a man’s life. Imagine how you would feel if Gwen were truly a sorcerer.”
Morgana’s assured smile loses composure as Arthur keeps talking. She goes from being his annoying, witty sister, to the determined, proud Lady of the people. Just like Arthur himself, who spirals between himself, the Prince of his people, a Knight of the realm, his father’s son, and his mother’s son, Morgana has many different demeanours. She’s the Lady Morgana, Uther’s beautiful ward, and then Gwen’s caring best friend, and then Arthur’s teasing sister, and then the voice of the helpless. Arthur’s not sure how much of it is fake for her. He’s not sure anymore how much of it is fake for him. What Morgana considers her true self, what she considers a false pretense… Arthur wouldn’t even know how to go about asking her that.
“So you won’t turn him over to Uther?” Morgana asks. “I thought you felt the same as he did about magic. Surely you aren’t so loyal to the boy as to be willing to go against your father’s beliefs?”
“Morgana, I realized my father was wrong about magic when I was thirteen.” Arthur doesn’t want to get into the full story of how, tries to put finality on his last word. Morgana doesn’t look surprised, which makes him realize that she may still be taunting him. “But you knew that.”
“Of course I did, Arthur. It’s not hard to tell what you think of things. You really need to work on your poker face.” Morgana demonstrates, letting her face fall into perfect calm.
“Really, thanks for the lesson,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes.
“Why have you never joined me in imploring Uther to reconsider his genocide of Camelot’s innocent citizens, then?” Morgana’s tone turns sharp as knives, cutting into the worst of Arthur’s failings. She always knows where to hit that will hurt the most.
Arthur can’t respond for a moment. “Morgana, you know I…”
“That you’re scared of Uther?”
“No! He’s my father, how could I be scared of him?”
“It’s because he’s your father. You don’t want to disappoint him, or anger him, or make him think less of you. So you leave it all to me, with my constant pleading and constant punishment. You said it yourself, we were close once. I remember a time when we did everything together, Arthur. Yet it seems you will not stand beside me in this, of all things, in something you actually believe in.” Morgana stands abruptly, and though her tone has not faltered, and her facial expression hardly moves, Arthur can tell she is truly upset. It’s every word that the both of them have thought, and yet never shared with each other. It’s all of Arthur’s guilt and regret. It’s all of Morgana’s spite and loneliness. “You say that we only have petty feuds now? That’s because you refuse to speak about anything that matters! And you call me here, to talk of your manservant, to talk to me about something that matters for the first time in years, because you know- you know that I support magic, that I will help you protect him. Because I am not afraid to say so! I stand by my beliefs, Arthur, which is more than I can say about you!”
She’s right. Everything she says is entirely, absolutely true. The truth of it is why it hurts so much. It hurts, which makes him angry, because the only thing Arthur has ever been able to summon in the face of pain is defensive anger. It’s easy to be angry. To let his rage consume him, and destroy something, and move on like that’s all there is to it.
Morgana’s dress trails after her as she heads towards the door. Too upset with him to continue, or perhaps only seeking to have the last word? Still, she keeps speaking. “Yes, I will help you with your manservant. He’s clumsy and not nearly as subtle as he needs to be. I think he’s sweet and deserves far better than to have to deal with you every day. You needn’t have asked. You and I, however, will be at odds until you learn how to stand up for what you actually believe in, instead of parroting your father’s hate. That will be all.”
And she slams the door on her way out.
Arthur stands alone in his room for a moment, speechless. Part of him wants to run after her, to get some kind of last word, to defend himself in any manner at all, but the part that realizes she’s right refuses to move.
Maybe her points about him not looking like a prince meant more than his clothing. What kind of prince allows all of his opinions to be given to him by someone else? What kind of prince lets someone else fight his battles? What kind of prince refuses to use his position to protect those weaker than him?
Arthur called Morgana to his room expecting to talk about Merlin, and what a bumbling, magical fool his manservant is. To come to some kind of agreement to help hide his magic from Uther and the other nobles. Like planning a prank when they were children. Collaborating on something once more. Like sneaking out to practice swordplay while everyone else was asleep.
Instead, Morgana’s given him the exact same thing she always gives him: The opposite of what he expected, and exactly what he needed to hear.
By the gods, she makes him so angry.
Yet he wouldn’t trade her presence for anything in the world.
When, weeks later, Merlin flies into the hall proclaiming the cup Arthur had been about to drink from is poisoned, Arthur knows in his bones that Merlin is right. Merlin was right about the shield, and the plague, and where Arthur had left his favourite pair of woolen socks. Arthur doesn’t care how he found out, knowing it must have something to do with magic, but if Merlin says the cup is poisoned, the cup is poisoned. He tries to vouch for Merlin’s word, but it means little before Uther.
Uther demands Merlin stake his life on his claim, and drink from the cup.
Arthur catches Morgana’s eye in a panic. She looks back at him, just as terrified.
Before either of them can do a thing, Merlin is throwing the liquid back.
There is a single moment where nothing happens. Arthur hopes in that moment that Merlin was wrong, that the cup wasn’t poisoned, that this whole thing can be forgotten with mere embarrassment and a night in the dungeons.
Then Merlin collapses, eyes rolling back in his head.
They go together, in the end. Uther’s son and his ward, taking their best steeds and armour and disappearing into the night. Arthur hadn’t the heart to argue Morgana out of it. She barely speaks to him as is. Even the typical back and forth of their interactions at feasts and seeing each other around the castle has ceased. She refuses to acknowledge his presence until he makes his beliefs known to Uther, or even the people at large.
Usually, Arthur might tell her this is too dangerous for anyone to attempt, let alone Morgana, who is forbidden from training with the knights. He might remind her that Uther would murder Merlin for the notion alone that Merlin may have led to a single hair on Morgana’s head being harmed. Arthur himself is going to get into a shocking amount of trouble for this, let alone Morgana, who doesn’t even have the defence of Merlin’s poisoning being for her sake.
When he sees Morgana arrive at the stables, dressed in her mail and boots, sword hanging off her hip, he can’t bring himself to argue at all.
After a day of hard riding, they find themselves at the cave holding the Mortaeus flower. Outside, a young woman in a ripped red dress sobs. Arthur hops off his horse, eager to be on his feet again and help out a damsel in distress, but Morgana hisses beside him.
“It’s too convenient,” Is all she says when he looks at her questioningly.
She’s right, of course.
When Arthur is hanging off the side of a cliff, reaching for the leaves of a flower just a little too high up, all he can think is how glad he is Morgana is here. The sorceress who tried to trick them into believing she was just an innocent girl in need of help had began incanting as Arthur edged towards the cliff the Mortaeus flower grew from, and Morgana had heard her every word. Morgana had her sword turned on the woman in an instant, her blade plunged through the woman’s heart.
Of course, the sorceress had survived somehow. She’d said something about having powers over Life and Death, and then disappeared in a wave of dark smoke.
Arthur has no idea what would have happened if he’d been alone. All he knows is that they have the Mortaeus flower, and Merlin will be alright.
“He must be so scared,” Morgana murmurs, staring into the flames flickering before her. Sparks crawl up into the darkness, smoke lost in the black of the sky. Her face is cast in shades of red and gold, her hair still shining after stabbing a woman. Her silhouette, usually so distinctly feminine, is only that of any knight now. Her armour isn’t just for decoration, after all. Like this, Arthur can almost imagine that Morgana was allowed to become a knight alongside him. That they’d never had to grow apart. That they could have stayed by each other’s sides, through thick and thin. The fiercest knights in all five kingdoms. Here, they’re just two knights out on patrol. Camping for the night, under the stars.
“I thought you weren’t talking to me,” Arthur replies. He doesn’t say it in a nasty way, he hopes. Just curious.
“Oh, shut up,” Morgana snipes back, very cleverly. “Like I could be quiet after all that.”
“I recall once that you gave me the silent treatment for an entire week after I didn’t tell you the squire boys were planning on pouring porridge down the front of your new dress.”
“It was an adequate punishment for the scale of your betrayal.” Morgana turns up her nose, but her smile is more genuine than any smile Arthur has seen from her for a while. She looks comfortable. Happy. Free. After a day of riding and tension and stabbing.
“Who’s scared?” Arthur asks, remembering her original statement. “Uther? Me?”
“Merlin,” Morgana responds. She looks at him, eyes as piercing as ever. Reducing him to the small boy who followed her around. “He must think he’s so alone. A teenager, just like you and me, fearing for his life every single day. Can you imagine?”
“No,” Arthur admits. “I don’t think he’s as fearful as you imagine. He always seems carefree.”
“How else could he act?” Morgana laughs, but it’s an empty and hollow laugh. “Admitting fear of execution admits that there is a reason for him to fear being executed. He’s running around for you all day, trying his best to sort out all the magical matters that plague Camelot, unable to share his exploits with anyone.”
“I think…” Arthur hesitates, unsure if this is his secret to share. Except it’s Morgana, and they’re in this together. “I think Gaius must know. Merlin lives with him. They’re always muttering to each other. And Gaius was the one to tell me that magic isn’t fully evil. So he must have Gaius, at least, to rely on.”
“That’s hardly enough,” Morgana says, shaking her head. Her eyes, so pale in the light, reflect the fire perfectly as she stares into it. “He’s hiding his magic every day, while simultaneously using it to save all of our lives. Mostly yours.”
“Hey!” Arthur shouts, feeling like he should be offended about something. Not sure what.
“We should tell him we’re on his side.” Morgana speaks now without paying attention to Arthur, declaring her thoughts to the world at large. Maybe just to herself. “That we want to help and protect him. That he need not fear us, or our reign.”
“Oh, and how would we do that?” Arthur scoffs. “Just go up to him one day and say, ‘Hey Merlin, notice you’re almost done scrubbing the floors. Would you like to finish up the rest of that with magic? We promise not to execute you, except what’s this? I’m talking to no one because the room is empty because you teleported far, far away?’ Yeah, that’s brilliant, Morgana.”
Morgana’s glaring at him, rolling her eyes pointedly. “Merlin’s right. You really are such a clotpole. It’s not like teleporting is easy, or else every sorcerer Uther catches would do it to escape. I doubt little Merlin could do something like that.”
Arthur thinks of the things he’s seen Merlin do. Defeating the water monster with fire and wind. Summoning snakes from a shield without the shield’s permission. Somehow knowing a chalice is poisoned without anyone else in the world knowing. “I don’t think Merlin is a parlor trick sort of sorcerer, Morgana. But perhaps you’re right. It won’t do to leave him to work to protect Camelot alone. Camelot is our kingdom, too, and knights of Camelot are vowed to protect our kingdom.”
Morgana is silent for a moment, almost visibly taken aback. “Knights of Camelot?”
Arthur looks at Morgana across the fire, his hand reaching for his sword unconsciously. Feeling the heft of it against his hip. “My father may have forbidden you from swordsmanship, but you wear the armour as proudly as any other. There’s no doubt you could last against me in a minute of one on one combat. Today, you stabbed a powerful sorceress through the chest without hesitation, probably saving my life. Morgana, you’ve been a knight as long as I have. A protector of those weaker than you. You just used your words to fight instead of your sword, because words were all anyone ever let you have. Though hopefully not forever.”
“Arthur,” Morgana says, almost a whisper, and to Arthur’s total shock, tears are brimming in her eyes. “Thank you. I-”
And Morgana stands, crossing past the fire to hug Arthur as fiercely as she ever has. Their armour clanks together, mail against mail, and it’s as distinctly uncomfortable as any other time Arthur’s knocked into someone else wearing armour. But Morgana’s face presses into his shoulder, and she speaks with such emotion that Arthur hugs her back instantly. “Your words mean more to me than you could ever know.”
She stays there for a few moments, sniffling a little, and Arthur awkwardly tries to rub her back through the mail. When she parts, her eyes are red, and she hastily rubs at her nose. He hasn’t seen her touch her face in public since they were twelve. No eye rubs, no nose wipes, no picking at her skin. It wasn’t proper for a young lady of the court. Arthur’s filled with a strange sort of inspiration, then. Out here, Morgana is no Lady. She’s a knight, just like him. And knights are welcome to fight, and bleed, and touch their faces whenever they please.
He gives her a moment to collect herself, expecting her to go back to her side of the fire, but she simply sits beside him instead.
“When I am king,” Arthur says, a set of words which usually inspire terror in him, “I’ll knight you properly. If you wish.”
“Arthur, when you are king,” Morgana laughs, “I will be a knight, and a councillor, and be the head of my family, and be free to marry whoever I choose. What point is there to having you be king unless you can give me everything I deserve?”
“Well, maybe the point of me making magic legal again, and giving reparations to the magical communities, especially the Druids,” Arthur rambles, “And seeking peace with the other nations of Albion. Amongst other things.”
“Right,” Morgana says. “But mostly it’s about me, I think.”
“Yes, of course Morgana,” Arthur says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s always about you.”
“Don’t be petty now. We’re having a nice moment.”
“Pointing out that we’re having a nice moment just ruins the moment.”
“Oh, can you just let me have this? You were being sweet and saying all sorts of things that make me so proud of you!”
Arthur breathes in, a huffy reply already dancing across his tongue, but then reconsiders. “Fine. We can simply bask in our nice moment.”
“Thank you,” Morgana says primly. Then proceeds to slump against him, closing her eyes as her temple rests against his shoulder.
It’s nice. Relaxing together, touching in a way they haven’t been able to touch in years. Since they started getting old enough that people gave them weird looks for hugging. Boys and girls only hug if they’re courting, apparently. The fire is warm, and Morgana is warm, and her breathing is steady and content. He’s able to be silent for a few minutes, before the need to bother her rises anew.
“There is no way that is comfortable,” Arthur comments. “Your hair is going to get caught in my mail.”
“Oh, give it a rest!” She swats his shoulder, laughing despite her irritated tone.
He’s missed her so much.
She’s Morgana, the bravest knight he’s ever trained, the loveliest lady he’s ever seen, the most determined person in his whole world.
They’re going to protect Merlin. Then they’re going to take the world by storm.
Together.
As it was always meant to be.