Chapter Text
Morgana was six the first time she witnessed the yellow glow of a magic user’s eyes. She was in the market square, walking alongside Arthur, his appointed guard, and their shared tutor. A rolling cart inexplicably diverted from its path, narrowly avoiding a small child. The wave of the man’s arm drew her attention, and the glow of his eyes. She didn’t understand what she saw, and she grasped Arthur’s arm tightly in her confusion and fear.
“Sorcery!” a nearby vendor shouted, pointing at the man. He began darting away, but not before several castle guards could seize and subdue him, making quick work of binding his wrists behind his back and dragging him towards the castles, surely to be thrown in a dungeon cell. Morgana shuddered at the thought; she knew the dungeons existed, but she was largely sheltered from that sort of thing.
Sorcery? Morgana questioned internally, and looked up skeptically at Tutor Bartholomew (Barmy Bartie — Morgana and Arthur teased behind his back). Bartholomew scowled in disgust at the man being dragged off. It rankled Morgana. That man just saved a child!
She thought back to the many dinners at which Uther spouted venom about sorcery and kept her reservations to herself, sneaking a wary glance towards Arthur. She saw disgust on his face, too. At what, she couldn’t be sure.
The day she first witnessed magic was the same day she first witnessed death.
Barmy Bartie thought it fit to educate Arthur and Morgana on the workings of Camelot’s justice system, and promptly marched them to the man’s trial after they lunched. She could tell that Bartholomew begrudgingly included Morgana in these lessons alongside the future king, but Uther insisted that his ward be properly educated, and one does not question the king’s commands. That, and she was an exceptional student—certainly better than Arthur, that much was clear.
Uther glimpsed his heir and his ward as they entered the throne room. He gave Morgana a slight smile in acknowledgement and subtly beckoned them to his side. Morgana nearly jumped when his demeanor shifted sharply and his voice boomed across the room.
“Bring him forward,” Uther commanded. The man was thrown in front of the king, shoved to his knees. To her right, Bartholomew lifted his chin righteously and puffed his chest out a bit, staring down at the man who, under different circumstances, could have been called a hero. Morgana’s stomach twisted, nerves clawing at her throat. She gazed at the man, and suddenly he met her eyes. Her guardian had taught her to see a monster in sorcerers, but before her she saw a human.
Uther began imperiously, “You stand accused of sorcery. Your vile use of magic was witnessed by my own knight. Have you anything to say for yourself?”
The man’s gaze flitted to Uther’s. His mouth opened as if to defend himself, and then his nostrils flared with fury.
“I refuse to defend my actions to a tyrant,” he seethed. The man spat at the king’s feet.
The room fell utterly silent. Morgana hesitantly looked up at Uther, afraid of what she would see. In her periphery, Arthur did the same, seemingly sharing her nerves. It was no surprise. Pure, unadulterated hatred marred the king’s face, his imposing scar standing out all the more on his forehead.
“To the gallows with him. At once,” said Uther in a low voice. The guards seized the man immediately. “Bring the children, Sir Ector,” he commanded Arthur’s personal knight. “Bartholomew, it’s time they understand the ways of Camelot. See that they learn from this fool’s lesson,” he muttered to their tutor and swept out of the throne room. The knight and tutor quickly pushed them forward, and they trailed behind him, following him to the balcony whereon they would observe the execution.
Morgana’s heartbeat thundered, and black spots began to appear before her eyes. Her steps faltered. Arthur’s nose wrinkled as he observed her, and he looped his arm through hers, steadying her as they stood beside the king. They weren’t yet tall enough for their chins to rise above the stone banister of the balcony, but the gallows were still clearly visible through the evenly spaced pillars.
The man looked up at the balcony with hatred as the hangman prepared the noose. Right before he was hooded, she thought maybe his eyes connected with hers. She tried to imbue as much compassion as she could into her expression on the off chance that he could pick up on such a thing at such a time. Hopeless dread filled her. Were her efforts futile? The black spots appeared again.
“Don’t look away,” Uther stated simply.
Morgana surreptitiously tried to do just that, but Arthur elbowed her and whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Do not disobey the king.”
So she watched. She watched while his legs twitched. She watched while the body swung.
She never did learn his name.
Morgana was eight when she first tasted death—sharp, cloying, and altogether more intimate than merely seeing it.
The air was thick with fog. Before her, Arthur rode with confidence despite the eerie setting. Sir Ector’s horse trotted to the prince’s right, and the handsome knight complimented the heir on his developing skill.
With a devilish, winsome smile, Arthur challenged his personal guard to a race and kicked his horse into a sprint before the older man could say otherwise.
Morgana watched with amusement. How was she watching? She felt like a spirit stuck to Sir Ector’s saddle.
Look out! she tried to scream. But it was too late. Sir Ector’s horse startled, spooked by some unseen threat, and bucked him off. Sir Ector fell with a sick crunch, his neck askew at an ungodly angle. She was beside him, within him, and felt the moment his life snuffed out. It was sudden darkness—light and hope, and then nothing. Extinguished.
Hooves pounded towards Ector’s motionless figure. “Beat you!” the young prince teased. “Sir Ector?” said Arthur in a small, uncertain voice.
Morgana shot up in bed with a scream, hand flying instantly to her neck. She had felt it, the injury that killed Sir Ector. But that couldn’t be. Sir Ector was alive and well. She was certain! She had seen him just this evening.
She crept out of bed and cracked the door open. Her posted guard looked rather concerned. Camelot was a secure castle, but unrest at the kingdom’s borders of late led to a tightening of security on those most important to the king. She wanted to sneak out and check on the knight’s quarters—see if Ector was there and breathing. But she certainly couldn’t give this man the slip, not after her screaming.
“Are you well, my lady?” the guard asked.
“Just a nightmare, Sir Bertram,” she said softly. “Tell me, are all the knights alright? Has tragedy befallen any of them?”
“Oh, lass, no! Did you have a nightmare about one of us knights coming to harm? You needn’t worry. The next retinue of men won’t go out to battle for weeks.”
“So mortal peril is right around the corner. How comforting,” she teased halfheartedly.
“Thus is a knight’s life. Danger and daring-do, I’m afraid. And, well, you’ll have plenty of time to embroider your mourning gown, won’t you,” Sir Bertram said gently. “Now, back to bed with you.”
Morgana still felt uneasy. Eventually, she fell back into a fitful sleep.
The next day, Sir Ector was dead.
That evening, she did not sleep, afraid of what nightmarish visions might plague her. Of what she might will into the world through her wicked imagination.
Two such sleepless nights passed, and Uther grew alarmed at her pallor. She did not touch her food, purple stood stark under her eyes, and her movements seemed almost paranoid. She did not meet anyone’s eyes and would not speak to anyone, not even Arthur.
“Your Majesty, if I may,” began Tutor Bartholomew, “I fear a spirit may be upon her, or perhaps some sorcerer has cursed her as a means of punishing you. We should send her at once to a convent to rid her of this evil.”
“Silence,” he spat. “Morgana will not be leaving my protection.”
The following day, she met Gaius.
Morgana was thirteen the first time she felt the weight of lust in a man’s gaze.
Lords from around the kingdom were beginning to arrive for Arthur’s birthday feast. Uther and his knights had recently won decisive victories against the Saxons. The king’s affection for his son always swelled when things were going well on the battlefield, but it had been a long while since there had been such an occasion.
Brunor, an old friend of Uther’s, supped with them the evening before the celebration. The men were well into their cups by the time Arthur and Morgana joined the meal, having concluded their evening lesson with Tutor Bartholomew.
Bored to tears by his prattling on about astronomy, Morgana and Arthur devised their own entertainment. As soon as Bartholomew turned his back, they swapped his book for another and opened it as quickly as possible. Barmy Bartie was getting so on in years that he didn’t even notice at this point. Anytime he reverently whispered the words “celestial spheres” it was a race to see who could flick the other faster. Morgana always used to be quicker, but now that Arthur was turning fourteen, his extra physical training was starting to give him an unfair agility that Morgana couldn’t match. With her repeated losses, she determined that after his birthday celebration, she would rejoin him on the practice grounds like she used to. To hell with embroidery!
“Arthur, Morgana, you remember Lord Brunor,” Uther boomed jovially.
The man clasped Arthur’s hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Welcome, Lord Brunor,” Arthur said with a glistening grin.
“Welcome,” Morgana began with a curtsey, “It is wonderful to see you again. I hope your travels were comfortable.” When she straightened, his eyes landed on her and widened slightly, traveling down her body and back up. An uncomfortable and unfamiliar pang struck her stomach. She offered her hand and he kissed it, lips lingering wetly. She subtly pulled her hand away, maintaining a polite smile, and stood next to Arthur.
She cast a wary glance to the prince, and he seemed to share in her discomfort. He placed a protective hand on her back as he guided her to her seat. Men didn’t behave this way towards Morgana, least of all in the presence of the king. Of course, she saw lustful leers towards serving girls and kitchen wenches, but never had she been on the receiving end, herself.
Arthur looked cautiously at the king, who smiled good naturedly and took another healthy gulp of his wine. Uther hadn’t noticed.
“My travels were fine, thank you. My, have you grown into a lovely creature,” Brunor said in an avuncular tone, but it made her skin crawl all the same. A servant began plating dinner, and soon attention was diverted from her. Talk turned back to Saxons and battles, and she quickly became a fixture in the room as the men discussed their wars. She could tell Arthur was trying to impress Uther and his guest, providing his opinion, referencing the histories, suggesting strategies.
“Have you thought of betrothals, Your Majesty?” Brunor asked. “Military prowess isn’t the only way to secure your lands.”
“Arthur’s hand is a carrot I plan on dangling for much longer, old friend. The throne of Camelot is far too valuable to toss out like scraps to any power-hungry mongrel,” Uther said conspiratorially.
“I wasn’t talking of Arthur,” said Brunor, eyes alight with a strange gleam.
Uther turned abruptly. “I won’t hear of it,” he snapped furiously. Morgana’s pulse quickened, and beside her, Arthur stiffened.
Brunor stammered, “Your Majesty, I was merely—”
“Enough!” Uther shouted. He took a long draft of his wine, a clear attempt to calm his sudden rage. An uncomfortable silence thickened the air in the room while they waited for his next words. “Arthur, Morgana, you are dismissed to your chambers.” His tone was that of measured authority. The prince and the king’s ward rose at once and quickly exited.
Morgana did not see Lord Brunor at the feast the next evening.
Morgana was sixteen the first time she kissed a man.
Despite her initial discomfort, Morgana soon grew used to the stares of men. As Camelot’s borders strengthened, fetes and festivals became much more commonplace, and, thus, Uther’s obsessive supervision of her virtue naturally loosened. Wandering eyes were simply unavoidable on such occasions, and frankly, Morgana reveled in the attention she easily drew. It was just so easy to get what she wanted!
A smile, a tender caress to an arm, and Sir Lionel was letting her on the training grounds.
A sly wink, a breathy whisper, and Sir Kay was letting her slip extra provisions to prisoners in the dungeons.
Unfortunately, wandering hands were never swift to follow wandering eyes. The knights were far too chivalrous; they preferred the promise of promiscuity rather than the actual thing—such was the way of courtly love. They would clutch her favors close to their hearts during tourneys, but never would they clutch her, even as she cornered them behind the tents. It was maddening, the way Arthur and his knights would boast of their exploits with bar wenches and servants as they practiced their swordsmanship, yet quickly stifled their conversation the moment she approached out of some apparent respect for her honor.
No, she would never find success with the knights. Damn them.
She decided to set her sights on a servant instead. Lucan was his name. He must have been a couple years older than her, and he swaggered with confidence despite his position. He had a certain lowly charm about him, as he filled Arthur’s cup at lunch. It was enough to catch her eye, and she knew he noticed.
She snuck one evening to the kitchens and stumbled upon him fooling around with another servant. She did not mean to stare, but she felt a strange heat pooling low in her belly when she saw him fondling the woman. Morgana gasped softly as Lucan hitched up the servant girl’s skirts. The girl’s eyes snapped open. She yelped suddenly and pushed Lucan back.
“My Lady,” she whimpered, and sunk into a low curtsey. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive me for this display.” Her already flushed face burned an even brighter red.
“Go to your quarters, Mabel,” Morgana commanded gently, a slight laugh in her tone.
The girl scurried out quickly.
“And what of me?” Lucan asked lowly.
Morgana took a tentative step toward him, eyes ablaze with hunger.
“Stay,” she said simply, surprised at the gravel in her tone. A moment of compunction was all she felt; could he really refuse her? Was it right to order a servant in such a way? But her moral quandary was soon smothered by the look in his eyes. He wanted her, unquestioningly. She placed her hands atop his shoulders when she reached him. “A kiss is all you get,” she said imperiously.
He leaned towards her, breath mingling with hers. “I’ll take whatever you give me, My Lady,” he whispered heavily.
She pressed her mouth against his, and she found that she liked the feeling of kissing. Their mouths worked in tandem, and Thank God, his hands wandered. They traveled over her arms, down her side, and gripped her waist, hard. She felt that heat pooling, yet again, and it terrified and excited her all at once.
His grip tightened and he tugged her towards him. Abruptly, she cut off the kiss and distanced herself. “I said only a kiss,” she scolded.
Morgana sauntered away with a laugh, returning to her chambers with a satisfied glee. If only she could brag about her exploits! But alas, she knew things were not the same for women at court. Not only would Lucan likely be banished from the kingdom if Arthur or Uther discovered this little rendezvous, but her own chastity would be called into question. It would either be a hasty marriage for her or off to the nunnery. No, if she wanted to explore this side of her, secrecy was paramount.
Unfortunately, Lucan did not possess even a whisper of subtlety. It was a single kiss, and he was utterly smitten with her! When serving Arthur, he fawned over Morgana like a bitch in heat. Gazing at her adoringly, looking for excuses to touch her as he poured drinks or plated food. As daft as Arthur could be, the servant’s obvious infatuation with her was impossible to ignore. If Lucan would not save his own skin, then she would damn well save hers. She would do what she could to lessen the blow, but she would not ruin her reputation.
She visited Arthur’s chambers one afternoon after he finished training. “My Prince, might I have a word with you?”
“Of course, Morgana,” he replied in his typical cocksure tone. He must have done well today in the yard. That boded well for her; his amenable mood meant he would be easy to convince.
“I do not want to stir trouble, but there is a matter that I believe I should bring to your attention. Perhaps you’ve noticed,” she began.
“Is it my servant?” he interrupted in a serious tone. She bit her lip in genuine discomfort. She did not want harm to come to Lucan. “Has he behaved improperly towards you?”
“Not exactly. He has not made any advances, if that’s what you’re suggesting. However, surely you’ve noticed the way he looks at me, and, well, hovers. Does he do that when I’m not around?”
“Are you suggesting he fawns over me as he does you? Please, Morgana,” Arthur scoffed.
“So you have noticed!” she accused.
“Of course I have! Anyone with bloody eyes can see that the poor bloke is in love with you. But he wouldn’t dare try anything, would he?” His confidence lessened as he continued speaking.
“I don’t think so. I just—he makes me uncomfortable, and I would prefer if you replaced him. I have heard unsavory stories from some of the servant girls, and I don’t care to be the object of his attention.”
“Well I suppose this is rather serious, Morgana. I didn’t realize you were in such an uncomfortable position. Honestly, I’ll have him banished at once.”
“No, Arthur,” she rushed out, “he doesn’t need to be punished. He hasn’t done anything untoward.”
“He’s leagues beneath your station, openly lusting after the king’s ward. I thought it was kind of funny, but now that I consider it more carefully, this is rather intolerable. I have no attachment to the man, and his behavior is already untoward enough. The king would call for his execution; my suggestion of banishment is mercy, and you know it.”
“Fine,” she gritted out, unsure of how she could salvage the situation without exposing her own lies. “But you will give him his next three months’ worth of pay. Or I will tell your father about Lady Edith.”
“Fine,” he agreed.
Morgana knew it was unfair. She knew she lured Lucan into this position and thus robbed him of his livelihood. But it was done.
She needed to be much more careful in the future. Her beauty felt like a trap—something that others could enjoy, but not her. Why couldn’t she enjoy the same pleasures as Arthur and his knights? That thrilling kiss with Lucan ignited a delicious spark that she yearned to explore further, but to do so would put others in danger. She knew Arthur was right; it could cost an unlucky someone his life.
She grated against the unfair expectations of her womanhood; she knew she would have to explore this part of herself within the suffocating standards already established in courtly romance. Pretty words and silken favors, it would be. Lingering touches during choreographed dances, the unfulfilled promise of a kiss to the hand and a lustful gaze across the grand hall. Seeking pleasure was a fleeting fancy; it was back to her little power maneuvers, eking out what privileges she could gain by batting her long lashes and flashing her lovely smile.
And she was certainly swearing off servants.
Morgana was seventeen the first time she heard the whisper of “Future Queen of Camelot.”
Her heart twisted at this, unsettled. Morgana thought of the flutter in her stomach when she kissed Lucan, thought of the way her pulse quickened when she glimpsed Sir Leon wiping the sweat from his face, baring his abdomen and the trail of hair there that made her imagination wander.
She tried to imagine Arthur that way, and an uncomfortable giggle arose.
“Gwen,” she whispered to her maid as they walked about the court. “Did you hear what that lady just said, as we walked by?”
“It’s something we’ve all been wondering, My Lady,” Gwen said thoughtfully, looping her arm through Morgana’s. Most noblewomen didn’t allow such expressions of affection from their servants, but Morgana considered Gwen a friend. There were no other girls her age at court, and Gwen truly was her only female companion. Morgana tried her best to treat Gwen as an equal, despite their difference in station.
“Really?” Morgana gasped, baffled. “Why?”
“Morgana,” Gwen stopped. “You and Arthur are practically attached at the hip, have been since as long as anyone living in this kingdom can remember. Well, I mean, as long as the two of you have been alive, that is. Well, as long as you’ve been under His Majesty’s guardianship. You know what I mean! Arthur’s handsome, and you're the most gorgeous woman who’s ever graced these halls—”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Gwen,” Morgana chided with a cluck of her tongue.
“Nor will false modesty. Come off it,” Gwen teased back. “It’s only natural for the King’s subjects to assume that he’d want to bring his beloved ward into his family, officially. I think you’d make a brilliant queen, My Lady.”
“Well, no one could possibly doubt that. Except our dear old Bartie, may he rest in peace.” Poor Tutor Bartholomew had died three months prior. In his latter days, he was really quite insistent on Morgana going to the convent. “It’s not a matter of my brilliance, obviously,” Morgana said with a wink. “But can you imagine that? Marrying Arthur of all people? The man is as daft as a turnip.”
Sincerity filled Gwen’s eyes. “My Lady, you can tease all you want, but I know you harbor great respect for the prince.”
“Can’t get anything past you, can I, Gwen? Of course I respect Arthur. Of course he’s an intelligent man—just and kind. But I already think of him as family. I can’t imagine wedding him,” she paused and met Gwen’s eyes meaningfully, “and all that entails.”
Gwen’s eyes widened, and she drew Morgana away from prying ears. “We oughtn’t discuss such things where others might hear. It’s improper.”
“Are you educating me on the ways of propriety?” Morgana scoffed with a faux-haughtiness. Though she teased, the words seemed to sting Gwen a bit. “Sorry, Gwen. I only meant, it is something I have to consider. I am likely destined to enter a loveless marriage, but I’d rather not be made to bed someone I consider a brother.”
Gwen’s nose wrinkled, but the corner of her lip twitched. Morgana’s eyes widened.
“Gwen! Tell me you’re not pining after Arthur!”
“I am doing no such thing,” Gwen insisted.
“You’re not telling me, or you’re not pining after him,” Morgana pressed with a friendly shove.
Gwen stared at her for five long seconds, then burst into nervous laughter.
“Giggling! You’re giggling about him! For the love of God, not you, too! I swear—has that impudent fool tried anything with you? I tell you, the day he dallies with my servant will be his last.”
“Morgana, please! Arthur may boast about dalliances with servants, but don’t believe a word of it. It’s all talk. Believe me—us lowly folk know the real truth of it. He has not taken advantage of his position with any servant that I’ve been acquainted with, as long as I’ve been in Camelot.”
Morgana felt a stab of guilt. She’d been the one to take advantage of a servant, not Arthur.
“I don’t know how you turned this conversation around on me. We’re supposed to be speaking of your future prospects. Is there anyone that has caught your eye?” Gwen inquired as she drew Morgana further away from the crowd, and they gradually walked back towards Morgana’s chambers.
Morgana huffed a frustrated sigh. “The knights avoid me as if I’m a leper. Uther’s protection has made me essentially untouchable, much as I chafe against that fact.”
“So do they. Often. Trust me,” Gwen admitted.
Heat rushed through Morgana. “Really?” she asked in a hushed tone. Though the girls were alone now, the topic of conversation felt forbidden.
“Morgana, you can’t possibly believe that just because they feel prohibited from pursuing you that they don’t want to. And I will not be repeating how I know this information, as it does indeed make my skin crawl to contemplate.”
Morgana rolled her eyes with a laugh. “Fine, I’ll take your word for it. Either way—I don’t get the sense that Uther is saving my hand for Arthur. Strategically, it serves Uther no political gain to wed the two of us. I’d imagine two advantageous marriages with foreign kingdoms would be better than none, don’t you?” Morgana gazed into the middle distance for a moment. “But who knows what Uther thinks. I love Camelot from the depths of my heart, and, truthfully, I love Arthur, too—like a brother, as I said. I would gladly take up the mantle of queen if called upon to do so. But I fancy myself a creature of passion and can’t help but wish for a grand love affair. Don’t you?”
“I think everyone wishes for the same, My Lady. Not everyone gets the luxury of acting upon their wishes, however.”
“Well, I hope that the both of us do,” Morgana beamed. “I’m going to go riding. Pray that I meet a handsome and mysterious knight who has never heard the name Uther, nor Arthur, and feels no compunction at besmirching my virtue!”
“I care far too much for your wellbeing to wish such a thing. Honestly, My Lady, your recklessness astounds me!”
“And your prudence astounds me! If I’m ever queen, remind me to appoint you my royal advisor.”
“As you command, My Lady. I shall go ready your horse. Enjoy your ride.”
It was Morgana’s turn to giggle. “Oh, you’re coming with me.”
Morgana was nineteen when time slowed down.
That morning, she woke up with an odd sense of foreboding. She couldn’t quite remember her dream, but she knew she hadn’t slept well. She remembered the stench of death and the flash of lightning.
Though she took her sleeping draught nightly, she could hardly remember that spell of fitful sleeplessness in her childhood. The unending chain of gulping Gaius’s remedy each night was the only thing that made the vision of her youth real.
That, and the occasional echoes of the nightmares that Gaius’s concoction suppressed.
But the stench, the flash—they were potent that morning, and she knew she would need a stronger dose. Morgana’s reflection in the mirror looked ghostly as Gwen ran the brush through her hair. She could tell her maid wanted to comment on it, but Gwen held her tongue.
By mid-morning, Morgana was forced to stand by as Uther presided over another execution. This time, Arthur wasn’t around to make her look. The vivid greens and the chirping birds of the early spring mocked her as she gazed out over the courtyard. Though she projected bravado to Arthur, to the court, she felt fractured and hollow.
As the afternoon wore on, Morgana hesitantly ventured to the physician’s chambers. To visit Gaius was to acknowledge her problem, and she had gotten so good at pretending it didn’t exist. But, alas, she was feeling rather desperate. She told herself it was vanity. How could she appear at court looking so haunted? So wan?
Her knuckles rapped gently at Gaius’s door. Expecting to see the wizened old physician, she froze in place when the door opened.
A mop of dark hair greeted her. “I’ve got the door, Gaius,” the boy called over his shoulder. When he faced his visitor, he froze, as well. The two stared at each other for a long moment. Morgana’s eyes traced his features. He looked to be about her age. His skin was as pale as hers, cheekbones high and sharp. His mouth was slightly agape as he took her in, blue eyes wide. Wide and endless and she could certainly swim in them.
He blinked rapidly, with force, as if catching himself staring. He coughed and bowed his head. “Lady Morgana.”
His display brought a tiny spark of life back to her, after having felt so empty. “It is customary to share one’s name when introducing oneself to a lady of the court,” she managed to tease. Morgana offered him her hand. He hesitated before taking it. She rested her fingers atop his calloused hand as he guided her into Gaius’s home.
“I’m Merlin, My Lady,” he said with a bashful smile.
“Merlin,” she tested. She liked the way the syllables used her lips and tongue as she spoke his name. “And you live with Gaius?”
“I’m his ward. He’s training me in the art of healing.”
“Well we have something in common. I’m the king’s ward, myself. So we’re both away from home, I suppose.” Her heart pounded. Her hand was still in his. He quickly dropped it when he realized, catching himself again.
“I suppose so,” he said. “Though I’m told Camelot has been your home for quite some time.”
“And just who has been gossiping about me? How did you come to know my name?” she asked, fishing perhaps a bit vainly.
He looked at her incredulously, as if fighting a disbelieving laugh. “I make it my business to stay informed,” he said in what seemed to be an attempt at sounding dangerous and perhaps menacing. Clearly, he was new to court to take such a tone with her, but she found she didn’t mind. A genuine laugh escaped her, surprised that she could feel such levity in this moment. She felt a thrill, leaning closer to him.
He paused and considered her, contemplating her features earnestly. Was he calculating some sort of risk? “I was in the square earlier. I saw you, in the castle window. You looked upset during the—well—earlier.”
“During the execution,” she forced out, feeling a stone in her throat.
“I asked Gaius about you,” he said simply. “What brings you here today?”
She felt unsettled and suddenly far too exposed. “I need to see Gaius.”
As if on cue, Gaius entered the room. “Here you are, my dear,” he said warmly.
“I was hoping to speak with you,” she started hesitantly.
“Yes?”
She struggled to form the right words. “I’ve been having troubled nights again. I think I need a stronger draught.”
“Three drops should do it, My Lady. Ensure you cease drinking any spirits well before taking the remedy.”
She wished she had requested privacy before she had started. She didn’t dare look in Merlin’s direction, but Morgana could tell that he was staring at her. It made her feel like her skin was being peeled back. But there, in the invisible space between them, she felt a strange, itching sense of connection. It was far too much.
“Thank you, Gaius,” she muttered, and quickly darted out of the room. She heard Merlin rise to follow her, but she fled Gaius’s chambers without looking back.
Later, at the feast, she registered Merlin's presence instantly at Gaius's side. She cast her gaze in the direction of Arthur and his noble friends, but she walked deliberately in front of Merlin, relishing in the feel of his eyes following her. She knew she sparkled that evening in her cranberry red dress, shoulders bear, gold chain around her neck holding the slip of a thing upright.
She lingered near Arthur and observed Gaius's new ward in her periphery. He and Gwen chatted comfortably.
She'd asked Gwen about him that afternoon, fishing for a bit more information. Merlin had recently journeyed to Camelot from Ealdor and was staying indefinitely with Gaius. Gwen had smiled warmly as she spoke of him. Does Gwen like him? Surely it was too soon to tell, and she could already feel her thoughts hovering about him in a way she hadn't experienced in quite some time. But she certainly wouldn't interfere in her maid's happiness for her own fleeting fancy.
Morgana had learned from her mistakes with Lucan. She let her heart rule her life, but when it came to her baser impulses, she would not act rashly, even if she did feel some sort of instinctual connection with this newcomer.
Later, when Merlin was named the hero of the night and given a position in the royal household as Arthur's servant, she knew was right to be cautious. She would not repeat her mistakes.