Characters/Pairing: Merlin/Morgana, mentions of Arthur, Uther, Morgause, Kilgharrah, Gaius
Word Count: 1,790
Summary: Sometimes Merlin wishes he told Morgana about his own magical powers.
Disclaimer: All Merlin characters and whatnot belong to the BBC and Shine Television. Plus, the title of this fic should be credited to Bloc Party, since it's a tampered lyric.
Author's Notes: I am very surprised myself that in less than one week I have another fic up. I blame that on my uni for starting late.
Sometimes Merlin wishes he told Morgana about his own magical powers. That way, he can feel like he’s done something that will help her understand, help her realise she’s not the only one with a secret to hide and be afraid of, but he’s too much of a coward. Merlin won’t ever tell Morgana because he’s scared of the repercussions for him, and maybe that counts as selfish, but so is wanting to save one’s own neck from an axe.
Morgana on the other hand can see only one path in front of her: Uther’s death. With Uther dead she can finally be free, and freedom is much too lovely to pass up.
When Arthur finds Morgana, all dirtied and distressed, stumbling alone in the woods, Merlin recalls Kilgharrah’s words; and when she smirks at him later on, her mouth twisted so much she looks like she’s grimacing, righteousness fills his body. His head echoes with the witch and Merlin doesn’t think Morgana has ever looked quite as wicked as she does now.
He can tell when he passes her in the castle corridors while following Arthur that any and all evil deeds she has planned with Morgause are on the tip of her tongue, waiting for him to pause a moment, to pay her some attention, and she’d spill all — that’s how eager she is. Merlin doesn’t even glance at her, and it’s not because of how much she’s changed but because of how responsible he feels for the change.
While Merlin knows he’s fairly naïve, watching Morgana fall so deeply into the lies Morgause spins makes him feel wiser than he’s ever felt in his short life.
The next time he sneaks a peek at Morgana’s constantly smirking face, it’s not regret in his eyes but pity.
One evening, as Merlin sneaks around the castle on another one of his destiny-related missions, a soft, pale hand drags him into an alcove. At first, he thinks it’s a knight or a guard and he’s about to get into a large amount of trouble. His mind is already racing for the latest excuse, which is for once something he excels at if he tries hard enough, and decides on regaling a tale of Prince Arthur and his insistence on frilly, pastel linens. Instead, he comes face to face with his new worst enemy. If he were really a hero, he’d call her his arch-nemesis, or rather he would be her arch-nemesis.
“Merlin,” sneers Morgana, her eyes filling with contempt, “what do you think you’re doing strolling” — she practically spits — “around the castle so late at night?”
Even without looking into her eyes, the worry that her plan could go all awry because of him is palpable. It’s in her countenance, her words, her reactions towards him.
There are times when he wonders how she would react if he kissed her.
However, he makes sure that any physical response his body has to her closeness is squashed. Merlin can tell the difference between right and wrong still, even if Morgana cannot.
Frozen in her presence, Merlin doesn’t answer her and Morgana takes his silence as fear. To be honest, he begins to stumble over his words when he’s around her in fear of revealing his best kept secret. A smirk blooms across her face, and it unsettles the sorcerer in a way that a raging dragon never could.
With a flick of her wrist, Morgana pushes some of her dark hair past her ear and eases her head around the corner of the alcove to check for patrolling guards. She places a pale hand on the bricks of the castle wall for leverage, even as she still holds a death grip on Merlin’s forearm. In the light of the torches, she looks beauteous and it’s easy to see how she could once have been charming. The torchlight flickers intricate patterns across her skin and she positively glows; Merlin wonders how everything became so different, so changed, so wrong.
Quickly, Morgana turns back to him, her smirk only growing. “Don’t worry,” she coos to him, all fake sweet and sugary. Her saccharine only gnaws at his insides. “Morgause and I will let you live if you don’t get in our way.” Her eyes have hardened since the first time he met her.
“We’re only doing what’s right, helping those with magic. I thought you understood me, Merlin,” she snaps. Her words bite, but it’s the venom in her eyes that finish the kill.
She shoves him backwards into the alcove with both hands. Merlin stumbles a bit — he’s always been a tad clumsy — and watches her stalk away. When he hears her resounding heels fade into the night, he finally lets himself breathe. He doesn’t even think twice before recovering the lost time.
If he ever gets the feeling of joining Morgana, of making sure all creatures of magic can be safe in Camelot, under the Pendragon rule, all he does is shake his head to clear his thoughts. He reassures himself easily enough: We’re right, we’re just, Arthur’s right, Arthur’s fair, this is the way forward, this is my destiny this is my destiny this is my destiny my destiny my destiny destiny destiny.
It replays on and on in his head. It almost always feels too overbearing. His shoulders get heavier every day.
Morgana sits beside Uther and across from Arthur for each meal. She laughs and talks of the day’s events. Merlin may only be there to serve them more wine, but he wants to bash his head in because he doesn’t understand how Uther can’t see.
When no one is looking, she’ll toss him a smirk and he always gets the urge to slap it off her face.
For all her plots and stratagems, he’s never failed to foil each and every one.
“You know, Merlin,” she murmurs to him one night, her words carefully stressed to give the right intonation. “Sometimes I think you believe I’m doing the right thing. Sometimes I think you want to join me.”
He’s always hated how they’ve always been the two perceptive ones of the group.
She forces him backwards into the alcove, a different one tonight on a different side of the castle, by her advancing body. Merlin is afraid he’ll burst into flames if he touches her and it has nothing to do with her growing powers.
“Don’t you think Uther has had enough fun” — she spits her words again and it’s a miracle no one has noticed other than him — “massacring innocent people for what they are born with? Don’t you think it’s time those with magic become free from his tyranny?”
There are times when he wonders if she’s pleading with him.
Half the time Merlin sees Morgana he wants to shake her and yell in her face, ask her what she thinks she’s doing or trying to accomplish. The other half of the time he wants to push her into a room and simultaneously fill it with water and light it on fire with his mind. And if he’s being really honest, there’s also a time when he just wants to hold her and rock her and whisper how everything will be okay if she just has faith in Arthur.
The anger and hatred she flashes at him quell that though.
After Morgana and Morgause take over Camelot with their undead army, Merlin feels lost and alone. It’s so hard fighting for the losing team. Kilgharrah is the only magical being he knows, but his presence would just let his secret out. He wonders if this is what Morgana feels like, if this seeping solitude is what keeping his secret has forced on her.
There are times when he has to remind himself that she’s the bad guy.
Once again the day is saved by the bumbling boy wizard who, as always, leaves all the credit up to Arthur. His heart drops into the pit of his stomach when Gaius tells him that Morgana’s body was never found.
She presses a thin, fragile palm on his chest, running a finger down to his navel. She can feel his muscles jump and tighten under the delicate pressure. Slowly, she straddles his lap, adjusting her dress with her free hand.
The air is hot and heady with a thick sexual tension that he can always feel around her. It chokes off his words and smothers him with desire.
Again, she runs her hand back up to his collarbone and he can feel the magic skipping along his skin. His body draws it out through her fingertips, and her skin laps whatever magic pulses out of him with each heartbeat. As sensually as she can, she draws her hand back to undo her dress. It slides down to reveal her thin, sheer slip. The sight of her makes him want to whisper I love you.
She cocks her head to the left and reaches back up to his head, ruffling his dark hair. She runs her hand through it and cups his cheek. He wants to lean forward, catch her lips in his, but she coquettishly pins him down with her other hand. Her fingers walk down his face like a spider, nails slightly digging into his pale skin, and he’s reminded of how similar they are: both pale-skinned, dark-haired, light-eyed, both magical, both destined for greatly opposite things.
She gives him a sultry stare as she takes his neck in her hand, lightly rubbing her thumb along his throat, up and over his Adam’s apple. His brain is hazy and his breath grows raspier as she lulls him with her touch. With just her closeness, she inundates him with everything he’s ever felt around her. It's like the air is electric.
And then she’s squeezing, her grip invariably strong. Her eyes harden as he begins to choke, his lungs searching and searching for more air. She leans forward, covering his naked chest with her clothed one. Her head is right beside his and she rubs her nose along his cheekbone. She puts her mouth beside his ear; the smirk is ever present.
Threateningly, she whispers, “You can’t get rid of me.”
With a start, Merlin wakes, his hands reaching for something to steady himself with. He grips the sides of his bed, his whole body shuddering and gasping. His tunic is sweaty and it clings uncomfortably to his back. He doesn’t take it off.
When he’s calm enough, he looks out the window at the moon and prays that the next time he sees her, the real her not the dream her, he doesn’t have to shove a sword through her stomach.