Pairing: Morgana/Merlin, alluded Arthur/Gwen
Word Count: 1,081
Disclaimer: Not a valid owner of Merlin, sorry.
She only comes at night. When darkness is at its fullest and his body is tired from the day’s work. She comes when he is tired of shining armor and saving that prat’s life numerous times. He falls to bed with a smile because he has never worked so hard in his life and the feeling is good. He and Arthur are two sides of a coin, without the other they are bendable…weak, so weak.
“You could rule with me, think of the things we could do Merlin,” she whispers in his dreams, a sport of seduction. Words that string a mantra in his mind, repeated throughout the day without even knowing. All he remembers are her hands frantically pushing away at him as realization slowly dawns upon her. Those same hands beginning to cling as the world darkens around her and he can feel his heart sinking all in the same breath.
Sometimes in his dreams, he whispers back yes. He takes her hand, cool in his own and steps over the cliff with her because she says they will fly. Sometimes in his dreams, he screams no, yells how her betrayal stings Arthur, Arthur who finds comfort in the embrace of a maid. In his dreams he screams at her until the magic in him boils his very blood and her eyes flash red. The dreams always end differently, but still her deception seeps into him even more.
“Oh Merlin…really, you think that Arthur wouldn’t kill you if Uther commanded it?” she teases. Hair falls over her shoulder in thick curls, curls that move like the snakes of Medusa. He could be turned to stone looking at her and never know if he truly would care. In his (her?) dream, she is uninhabited, proudly jumping from table to table. She’s always wearing forest green, green silks that morph in the light to reveal the faces of screaming people (the fabric is silk with blood). She laughs in his face, throws back her head, whole body shakes with the force of it. She looks back at him, eyes a startling bluebloodthecolorofblood. He cannot speak, enthralled by the waves of magic that assault him, he drinks in the feeling of having someone like him; strong.
“Arthur would snap your neck as soon as he was told. He’s a child vying for a father’s love,” she murmured, her hand drawing lines across his cheek. Her nail digs deep into the skin, he shivers with the pain. “A father who loved me only in words, he could never love what we are.” Morgana is every bit the monster she was destined to be in his dreams, dancing in blood that never stops falling from all around them. Sometimes he fears what she has become, a product of magic much too strong. Other times (most of the time), he pities her (desires her).
The assault upon him continues for years as her name becomes the stuff of nightmares in the stoned walls of Camelot. As their King damns her very name in public and blames himself behind closed doors, doors that are soon attacked with all types of glass that shatters upon the ground in pools of wine red as the blood she spills with a smile. Merlin knows the dreams take a toll on him, everything about him.
Gaius makes no reference to the black under his eyes, the scars that appear overnight. He makes no reference to the whimpers that leave his apprentice’s lips at night, words of magic that leave his mouth in the middle of the night (when shadows cling to the walls and laugh).
“Where is Morgause?” he finally questions, voice cracking from disuse in their ‘world’. Morgana pauses in her practice of swordplay, turning. She looks every much the insane sorceress as she slowly sets down the sword red with blood. He’s never sure if the blood is her own or his, but it’s always there; a definite like his own beating heart. Her breeches become swimming silks of reds and greens as if they always were as she sits in Uther’s own throne.
“Morgause?” she questions as if not fully understanding the name. Familiarity dawns in her gaze as the corner of her lips quirk upwards. “We’ve decided to go our own ways. Don’t worry though Merlin, I think you were fond of her, right? I gave her a proper burial benefiting of my sister,” she explains, bursting into laughter that rings like silver bells on snowy days. Snowy days dotted with rotting flesh and the stink of blood filling the air, stained by her very name.
His throat is dry and aches from the feel of his bones snapping, a testament to Morgana’s earlier prediction. His magic calls to her so strongly his eyes burn gold.
“What if I said yes, to help you kill Uther? Would you kill Arthur also,” he whispered, eyes drawn to the black edges around her eyes. Edges that mirrored the own around his, if he squinted his could see the blackness of her magic. The heavy thing that weighed him down and refused to allow him movement, magic that left him gasping for air and heart racing.
Morgana surged against the throne, eyes closing as she grinned.
“Merlin if you said yes…I would do anything you wished, so long as you help me with this,” she laughed, drawing him towards her with a beckoning finger. The walls around them began to weather with each step he took, stone eroding (molding). Standing before her, he couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled from his throat at the pure enjoyment upon her face. A face he had last seen in the throes of betrayal, gasping for any air left in her body.
“I would give you the world,” she whispered, extending her hand. Grasping cold digits within his own, he pulled her up, watching as she stumbled slightly in her hurry. Something other than magic burns hot in his gut boils his blood with other emotions that send his heart hammering.
She looks up at him through thick eyelashes, a face that spells disaster for many men. He isn’t sure if he cares, they can be two sides; two sides of a blade so sharp.
He surges forward, wraps his fingers through sin so dark it stains him forevermore. She smiles against his lips, fingers twist so hard in his hair strands rip out.
“I would give you the world, bloody and broken.”
Title: Equal Sides
Word Count: 830
Disclaimer: Not a valid owner, only in thought. :)
Summary: Uther is bloody and broken upon the throne he would so quickly defend.
Notes/Warnings: character death, implied character death, slight spoilers for 2x12, done for merlin_santa
Uther is bloody and broken upon the throne he would so quickly defend.
She peels away from the shadows, feet silent upon stone covered with the dust of bones gnashed together.
Uther is bloody and broken, but the damned man will not die before she deals with him. She vaguely checks on Merlin, sees him protecting his blond prince from monsters that make up nightmares. He was always to loyal to people who didn’t deserve it, going so far as to poison her simply to protect them all.
Eyes whitening with death watch her as she circles the throne, holding up a hand. Words of the old magic leave her lips in quickening speeds, rings of fire forming around them.
“Did you think it wouldn’t come down to this?” she whispered, as snakes of iron wrapped themselves around his wrists, boiling the skin that lay beneath. Uther screamed in outrage, struggling against the chains.
“How dare you do this to me? I took you in and treated you as my own!” he shouted, losing all façade of a King in the moments before death’s cold hand laid its final touch.
Calm breaks in this moment, any sort of emotion she had towards him dies in the pits of hell where he belongs.
“You chain your own in dungeons? If you had known what I was, I would be facing the axe or stake just as quickly as anyone else! Do not pretend to be something you are not,” she whispered, jerking his gaze towards her face.
The doors swing upon to reveal wounded soldiers, easily brushed back with a wave from her. She has never felt such anger burning at her lungs, so hot that she stumbles to her knees under the very weight of it. Twisting her wrist, his body bursts into smoldering flames, his screams echo off the stone walls. His screams carve themselves into her as she lies on the floor, shaking with her laughter.
The smell of cooking flesh fills the room, so pungent she turns over onto her side and gags into the dust of the floor. Her stomach clenches hard as she expels whatever’s inside of her. Until there’s nothing left but the blackness she calls a heart and the empty spot where sanity used to lie.
She’s supposed to feel something when she kills her oppressor; pride (isn’t that what Morgause said?). Sobs rack her body, as she stares at the burning husk of a man she once considered father, and she did as much as she wants to deny it.
“There wasn’t a need for revenge, was there?” Merlin questions from the very shadows she emerged from. Ash coats his skin, wiped away with hands that are just as dirty. There is cold fury in his breath, cold fury in the way he stalks towards her, pulls her from the floor. She’s crying and laughing, not sure which emotion is a proper one for this situation. Was there ever a right one for this?
“You promised me Arthur would be fine!” he bellows, forcing her head back. The skin of her throat pulls so tight she fears it snapping with another breath. It’s than she notices the dried blood flaking off of Merlin’s hands, staining her gown covered with dust and darkness.
“You’re little prince died? Couldn’t protect him, could you Merlin, not strong enough?” she whispers, tears beginning to stain her cheeks. Stupid prat Arthur with his cheeky remarks and his ever-lasting smiles; smiles that made her want to prove him better. Her legs give out beneath her, but Merlin holds on, his own body beginning to shake with sobs.
“He’s dead and how could I have ever believed you?” he screams into her hair, curls that lay dead as Medusa; turned into stone by a glimpse of her own reflection. Morgana’s just seen her own reflection reflected in her own memories.
She shakes her head, each shake quickening.
“I’m sorry Merlin, so sorry. Equal sides of a coin,” she whispers into his neck, dragging cracked lips against the exposed skin. But she’s not truly sorry; she truly doesn’t feel a thing.
Hands shake as she grips his face between her palms, dragging her lips across each eyelid, catching each tear as if they sustained her very life.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move beneath her touch. He already knows what follows this path, knows where destiny speaks of him.
Drips of blood escape his lips as his body spasms, falling into her arms. Eyes wide, Morgana stares at the bloody dagger streaming blood onto her hands. She throws the blade to the ground, staring at the widening pool of blood beneath the only man truly equal to her. Merlin gives her a tired smile, before his face erupts in pain as he arches off the ground, head cracking back into the ground from the force. Giving a short scream, Morgana covered her mouth with blood-soaked hands; red smearing into pale skin.