#morgwen are amused

[confused-wanderer]

Merthur but make it

“Brown eyed people when the sunlight hits them at a certain angle”

Arthur who is in love with Merlin’s eyes. Who knows the man by them alone because no other gaze has ever been as honest and vulnerable as his.

Arthur who fully sees Merlin’s eyes go yellow and brown when the sun hits them. Arthur who is fully convinced it’s just another miracle of nature. He knows how sunlight sometimes distorts peoples eyes, he’s never seen them work quite so intensely as they do on Merlin. Because of course the sun favoured him. Of course Merlin was special. In Arthur’s eyes, Merlin was the embodiement of sunshine. Wasn’t it only fitting that the sun had found a favourite in him too?

Himbo Arthur who doesn’t realise Merlin’s eyes aren’t brown because he’s too busy admiring them when they turn yellow, even for a split second. Arthur who pouts when he tries to see if anyone else’s’ eyes can do it, and is disappointed when they can’t. Arthur who can tell Merlin apart from thousands just by his eyes, but never argues about their color.. it’s just..so.. Merlin, no matter the color.

Gwaine and Lancelot who are dying of repressed laughter when they overheard an argument where a noble accuses Merlin of magic because he claims he saw the servant’s eyes turn yellow and Arthur’s prompt defence being “oh I’ve seen that happen myself multiple times”

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

A Hand in the Flames

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: morgwen

Word Count: 2485

In one version of this story, Merlin comes to Camelot to fulfill his destiny. King Arthur ushers in the Golden Age of Camelot. Morgana Pendragon is the Last High Priestess of the Old Religion and dies at the hands of Emrys. In another story... * * * When Uther Pendragon tries to purge the kingdom of magic, the magic fights back. A neighboring kingdom rises to become a magical fortress, governed by two Queens, Morgause and Morgana--one of which had been his ward until she revealed her own magic and thrust Camelot back into ruins. Ever since, the King has sworn revenge on all magic, spreading the word of its evils and poisons to all who would listen. A rebellion has grown in Camelot, ready to rise upon this horrid magic kingdom for the good of the world. Among them, a peasant girl and her brother, at whom no one would look twice. Sent to sneak into the kingdom and gather what information they could, to report back to Uther to plan for a great war to come. It should be simple: attend a masquerade ball under the guise of revelry, observe what the goings on were, what vulnerabilities the castle might have. Oh, it was rarely so simple.

"I believe the lady said she didn't want to dance."

The pushy ball-goer's hand jolted back from Gwen as if scalded—and honestly, she could hardly blame them when Queen Morgana herself had suddenly appeared behind them. She smiled, as terrible as a thunderstorm, and inclined her head so that the candlelight shone off the blood-red stones.

"Now," she purred, eyes dark, "go and put your hand in the fireplace, so maybe next time you will understand the word 'no.'"

"That's—that's not necessary," Gwen said quickly.

The Queen turned to look at her.

"Just—just go," she said, crossing her arms protectively over her middle, "and don't pressure anyone else."

Silence fell over the balcony as the affronter glanced between her and the Queen. The Queen regarded her for a moment longer before turning back with a raised eyebrow.

"You heard the lady," she said smoothly, "unless you prefer my option?"

The affronter needed no more encouragement to turn and flee. Gwen watched them go, brief euphoric relief fading and souring as the Queen hummed.

"Thank you," she said quickly, bowing her head, "for helping me."

The Queen didn't say anything for a moment, before humming once more. "Not many people would dare contradict me like that."

Definitely not relieved anymore. "I meant no offense."

"Neither, I'm sure, did our friend with the wandering hands."

Gwen looked away, eyes on the swirling dancers, before summoning up her courage and curtsying properly.

"My apologies," she murmured deferentially, "for any offense or disrespect."

"You've given none," came the absolution as the Queen drew closer, "and yet I find myself wondering just what happened to that defiant little spark."

"…probably off in the fireplace, My Queen."

The Queen laughed, eyes still fixed upon her. "Is that why you came out here, then?"

She gestured around at the bluish-black sky, gold and silver glittering from her wrists and fingers as her gown shimmered. Stars sprinkle the night, illuminating the garden that sprawled beneath their feet.

"To get some relief?"

"Yes, My Queen," she said, "I'm afraid it got—got a bit too hot for me, that's it."

"Is that why you appear so flushed?"

Her hands flew to her cheeks, half in denial, half to hide the evidence. But sure enough, she could feel the dampness that had gathered on her face, the reaction only prompting a greater one as she stammered.

"Oh, dear," the Queen said, sounding far more amused than concerned, "it appears to be getting worse."

Yes, yes, indeed it did. "I—um—well, it—um—"

"Come now," the Queen chuckles, leaning against the balcony railing next to her, "I'm only teasing."

It was unfair, Gwen decided, that the Queen could wind her up so easily and then just as readily soothe her. It was unfair and probably dangerous and she would much prefer if it weren't happening.

She would also not be leaving this balcony on her life right now.

"Thank you," she said, again, aiming for more sincerity, "for helping me, truly."

"I can't bear it when someone lays a hand on something that doesn't belong to them," the Queen said, "and especially not when done so…inelegantly."

A strange feeling settled in Gwen's gut, one she didn't dare name for fear of the mortifying consequences of being known. "I came out here in the hopes that they wouldn't follow me."

"Perhaps not your soundest decision of the evening."

"No, it seems not, My Queen. Not only did they follow me, but so did you." The Queen hummed, gaze telling her that wasn't good enough. "…why?"

"Initially, I thought to spare the guests some mortification," the Queen said, tilting her head, "but then I overheard the nature of your…withdrawal, and…"

She gestured back toward the ballroom.

"I must say, my dear," she continued, kindly refraining from remarking on the reaction the use of the pet name garnered, "I do hope your first idea was not to go with so weak of an excuse."

Gwen frowned. "So weak of a what?"

"That you couldn't dance, of course." The Queen tugged on the hem of her skirt, exposing one shoe. At the sight of the scuffed and worn leather against the Queen's finery, Gwen felt a rush of shame. "Now, had you begun the evening with a limp, perhaps it would be more believable."

Despite every courtesy screaming at her to do otherwise, Gwen hunched her shoulders and looked away. The Queen noticed, because of course, she did, lightly tugging on the skirt again; a command for a response.

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't dance." She stared at a crack in the stone. "Not because I'm injured."

"What other reason could you have?"

"I don't know how." She toyed with a loose thread on the hem of her sleeve—should have fixed that, Gwen—"No one's ever taught me, I wasn't lying."

Music from the ball drifted out into the still night air.

"Surely," the Queen said, a note of humor in her voice, "you would have learned at least some before? I cannot imagine there is a shortage of potential teachers, certainly."

"Where would I have learned?"

"At a ball, of course." At her silence, the Queen hums, the humor fading. "Is this your first time, my dear?"

Why must you ask like that?

"There's no need to be embarrassed," the Queen cooed, as though she were talking to a sulking child, resting her hand on her arm, "but I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yes, My Queen."

"There, now, was that so hard?" A finger lifted Gwen's chin, turning her to face the Queen. "What's kept something as lovely as you from my halls for so long?"

"I've only just been allowed to come, My Queen. I—it is only through your grace and mercy that I am permitted to walk your halls for even a second—"

"Stop."

Gwen's mouth snapped shut. The Queen tapped her chin.

"I care not for the sniveling platitudes," she said lowly, "tell me the truth."

"I'm—I'm not a noble," Gwen said, fighting to keep the pride in her voice steady, "my family's forge has just begun work for your armories. My father asked if I were to be allowed to attend one ball as a token of their acceptance of our services."

The Queen looked at her for a moment longer. It was true what they said; the Queen's beauty was…relentless. Unwavering. The beauty of a forest fire, the hauntingly stunning devastation of a perfect winter storm. And her hand was still cupping Gwen's chin.

All at once, the Queen stepped back, holding out her hand.

"Would you like to be taught?"

Gwen blinked. "My Queen?"

"To dance," the Queen asked, "would you like to be taught?"

"After you just threatened to burn the hand of someone who attempted to ask me?"

"Do not think me to be so graceless," the Queen said, voice a tad firmer, "I would be more than willing to accept a rejection and return to our conversation."

Chastised, Gwen nodded, gaze flicking to the proffered hand.

"…I really am no good," she tried.

"How could I expect you to be good when you have never been taught?"

"I don't want to step on you."

"I've suffered far worse than a few crushed toes, I can assure you." When Gwen still hesitated, her voice softened slightly. "You can say no, my dear, I give you my word I will not hold it against you."

The feeling that had settled in her gut tugged at her. She could say no. She could say no and just talk, instead, but talking meant that she could slip up and say something dreadful that she would be punished for later.

But dancing with the Queen…

There would be nowhere to hide.

"…you'll have to be very patient with me."

The Queen smiled, teeth gleaming in the low light as Gwen took her hand. "That's quite alright, my dear, I can tell you with the utmost certainty I will do my best."

She was pulled gently yet firmly into the Queen's arms, her gaze moving instinctively to hers.

"Don't fret, my dear," she murmured, arms caging her close, "I'll be gentle."

The music swelled and the pair turned, Gwen stumbling slightly against the Queen's chest.

"Come now, relax," the Queen said softly, "move your hand up a little onto my shoulder. A little more…yes, that's it."

She slid her hand down to take Gwen's in hers.

"Thumb on top, there you go."

Gwen swallows. Now that the fear of the Queen had morphed into a slightly humiliated confusion, she could feel herself start to tremble.

"Don't be so scared," the Queen scolded gently, "I won't bite."

Oddly enough, that didn't do much to dissuade her fears. She followed the Queen's guiding steps as best she could, but no matter what she tried she couldn't keep her hands from twitching.

"Hh!"

She gasped as she was suddenly tilted backward in a dip. The Queen smirked down at her as she clung to her shoulder.

"Focus," she bid softly, "don't be afraid to hold onto me."

Gwen swallowed as the Queen brought her up slowly as the music began to rise. She took a deep breath—it was only one dance. She could do this.

"Good," the Queen said as they began spinning in slow circles about the balcony, "you learn very quickly for someone who's never danced before."

"Thank you." She glances at the much more extravagantly dressed guests whirling expertly about the floor. "Though I'm sure you would have a better time with another partner, My Queen."

The Queen smiles, raising their clasped hands and spinning her so her back was against the Queen's chest.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," she purred, "did you really think, out of all the guests in the ballroom, I just happened to see you come out here?"

She lifted their arms to spin her back and for a second, the only thing holding them together was the clasp of their hands. She could try and run, scene be damned. But then her hand is on the Queen's shoulder again and she's once more pressed against her chest.

"Don't get me wrong," the Queen murmured, mouth almost brushing her ear, "it did take me by surprise. Quite the risk, little fawn, walking into my arms like that."

She tried not to flinch. She failed.

"And you've been left all alone." Her hand caressed a seam of her dress. "No one around to stop me from walking right up to you and asking for a dance."

Gwen's eyes started to dart around, searching desperately for Uther's hidden guard, Elyan, anyone—

"I can feel your heart racing," the Queen chuckles, "are you looking for your brother? You won't find him."

She's killed him. She's killed him—she's found us out, she's going to kill me—

"Shh," the Queen crooned, stroking a hand firmly up and down her back, "I'm teasing you, he's just stepped onto the other balcony. I believe he's looking for you."

"You—"

Gwen shuddered in the hold, doing her best to remain somewhat composed only for the music to change and she was spun about again.

"I didn't mean to scare you so badly," the Queen said softly as she was brought back in, a touch of regret slipping unbidden into the words. "Calm down, my dear, I don't hurt children."

I'm not a child rose instinctively to her lips but she swallowed it.

As they stepped toward the center of the balcony once more, the Queen pulled back a little. Her brow furrowed, her hand briefly leaving Gwen's waist for a moment to touch under her chin.

"No harm will come to you here," she said, "to you nor your brother. You have my word."

Gwen simply nodded. The Queen smiled and pulled her close once more.

"Now, I spent all that time trying to get you to loosen up," she said, "I'll be damned if you get all tense on me again."

Gwen took another deep breath, she could do this. She would do this. The Queen had said she wouldn't hurt her, or Elyan, that she didn't hurt children. It would be okay.

The music dipped and swelled as they turned, Gwen's eyes catching on the corner where Uther had said his guard would be posted. She couldn't help but wonder if he would spot her dancing with the Queen.

What would he think?

She doubted he'd listen to the Queen when she said she wouldn't hurt children. She doubted he'd believe she and Elyan were still children, but they were, they were—maybe she'd get scolded for thinking she was a child. Maybe he would agree that she was a child, but then—then—

She should have listened. She should have stayed in her corner like she was told to. But the ballroom had seemed so captivating and the music so alluring…and she had only been there for a second, truly…

But no, she hadn't listened.

And now, who knew what the guard would tell Uther?

Despite everything, she tensed in the Queen's arms, her gaze still on the guard. As if at any moment, he would look over and see her, and whatever tenuous peace she had with the Queen would be shattered.

The Queen noticed. Of course, she noticed. She followed Gwen's gaze. Gwen, on the other hand, did not notice the thing that flickered across the Queen's expression until her grip tightened almost protectively.

"I swore to you," she murmured, "that no harm would come to you, that I don't hurt children."

Gwen startled, looking back up at her. Gone was the slightly flirty smile, the suave mask of the generous party host, or the ominously threatening aura of the Queen. Instead, she looked…concerned?

If it were anyone else, she would have said the Queen looked worried.

The Queen glanced at the guard again.

"Would Uther be able to say the same?"

Gwen's silence, she knew, was telling.

"Your name," the Queen whispered into her ear, "before I leave you for the evening."

She shouldn't. She should give a false one, or no name at all, she should remember why she came, she should remember what they told her, she shouldn't, she shouldn't—

"Gwen," she breathed back, "my name is Gwen."

"Gwen," the Queen said, her voice caressing the sound, "such a lovely name indeed."

And as though she were mere shadow, her arms slipped from her waist and the Queen sauntered back into the ballroom, her head held high and her crown agleam. Gwen watched her go, arms curled about herself to preserve the phantom warmth.

Doubt was a dangerous thing, Uther had told them before they came, do not believe the lies they try to spread, nor the smoke to cloud your judgment.

And yet, on that balcony, as the night sparkled around her, Gwen had the sudden suspicion that she had seen clearly for the very first time.

[angriff-zur-wahrheit]

You will also find some brazen tropes in Legends of Camelot :

‘I am Sir Ector,’ he said, as his two companions also dismounted. ‘May I have the honour of knowing your name?’ ‘Donna,’ she said graciously. ‘Donna Noble.’ ‘The noble Lady Donna,’ he said. ‘“That’s no lady, that’s my wife,”’ the Doctor murmured, quoting an old vaudeville joke.

‘“Affianced”,’ said Donna. ‘“Betrothed”. Tell me if I’m wrong, but those are just arty-farty words for “engaged”, aren’t they?’ ‘Yup,’ said the Doctor, who was looking amused. ‘So the only way we’re going to get into this castle is to pretend to be an engaged couple?’ ‘Yup,’ the Doctor said again. ‘Oh, all right. I’ll do it. Sir Balin, will you marry me?’ The Doctor, who had been expecting Donna to ask him and had been readying some jokes in response, was taken aback, while Sir Balin almost fell off his horse in shock. ‘My lady Donna, I –’ the knight began.

‘No,’ said the Doctor in such a grim tone that the two knights halted mid step. ‘This time, you will listen. And so will you, Morgwen.’ He’d reached Donna now and his last remark was addressed to her – or rather to the being that was merged with her – as he began to untie her from the stake. ‘This must end. Return to the Druse and your dreams. If you had accepted your loss to start with, none of this would be happening. You can’t keep upsetting the board every time you think you’re going to lose! Because I am telling you now, I am not willing to sacrifice even a single pawn, let alone my queen.’

“How did you do that?’ Donna asked. ‘I didn’t,’ the Doctor said. Then he laughed. ‘Oh, I could kiss you!’ ‘Oi, keep your lips to yourself,’ Donna said. ‘Not you,’ the Doctor called back, already running towards his ship. ‘I was talking to the TARDIS!” / The Doctor’s eyes widened. ‘Yes. Yes! I could kiss you!’ ‘Are you talking to me or the TARDIS this time?’ she asked warily. ‘You!’ ‘Could I maybe have the cash equivalent?’ she said, but his excitement was infectious. ‘Er, what did I do, exactly?’

OKAY so I am re-listening to "Death and The Queen" again and I am having Thoughts™.

I can't find any info about when this drama takes place continuity-wise, but my personal placement would be after "Planet of The Ood" (4x3) and before "The Sontaran Stratagem" (4x4) because 4x4-4x6 take place directly following each other with Donna stating at the end of 4x6 that she plans to travel with the Doctor forever. Donna's determination to continue traveling w him is in keeping with the conclusion of Death and The Queen, where she comes to the decision that the Doctor IS her "happily ever after," as it were. Placing the drama after "Fires of Pompeii" and "Planet of The Ood" also makes sense with Donna's desire in the audio drama to have a break from "the extraordinary" of traveling with the Doctor (specifically, horrific death and destruction,) which adds understandable context to her seemingly being so willing to leave the Doctor after searching for him for so long.

 (Don't talk to me about the ending of Forest of The Dead. It's unlikely Donna would have left the Doctor even if she found Lee. Donna's desire to confirm whether Lee was real could be easily contextualized by her wanting to know how much of her experiences inside CAL were a fabrication, and what the supposed "perfect husband" persona would have said about her if it was drawn from her own mind. Also it was written by Moffatt so it shouldn't count anyway.)

ANyway, what I actually wanted to talk about. Notably, considerable emphasis is placed on Donna enjoying her role as Queen and especially caring for her subjects and having power to help people. A greater amount of text is dedicated to her talking about how as Queen she can care for her subjects than her love for Rudolph, even before the reveal that he is human(?) trash. Her attachment to the role of Queen that marrying Rudolph will grant her is established to be largely based upon her passion for helping people rather than luxuries associated with rank, especially in view of the montage of how royal life on Gorotainia is not as glamorous as she hoped but is still enthralled by being Queen. Later in the story, when danger has appeared, her main role in the story is sacrificing and taking the lead to protect her subjects.

Notably, when things start going downhill and Rudolph starts talking to her about the difficult choices that he must make as royalty she comments that Rudolph is “just like HIM” (the Doctor) and that she went with Rudolph to escape these darker aspects of her travels with the Doctor, specifically the hard choices that go with the role the Doctor plays in the universe (while she doesn’t connect these concepts directly, these two statements are placed very close to one another textually.)

Only when her relationship with Rudolph and role as Queen seems like it will involve some of the same dark choices that her travels with Doctor did does Donna decide she doesn’t want to be involved anymore, which is quickly reversed when she finds out she needs to become Queen in order to protect her people. (I love Donna. In case you can’t tell.)

The narrative has established that a large part of Donna’s attachment to her relationship with Rudolph is potential authority to help and guide people, and that her main interest in pursuing a life with Rudolph rather than her travels with the Doctor was her perception that her role as Queen of Gorotainia would not involve the same death and destruction she has seen with the Doctor. Perfectly understandable after experiencing something like Pompeii.

Donna’s compassion and empathy have been essential components of her character since her introduction, with her wanting to protect the Doctor despite being irritated with him and feeling sorrow for the children of a Rancoss that wanted her to be eaten in “The Runaway Bride”, her taking the time to mention Stacy in “Partners In Crime,” and literally everything in “Fires of Pompeii” and “Planet of The Ood’. Donna has always taken the time and the energy to think of others and work to protect them, even this early in her run. In view of how deeply she feels the pain of others, it is understandable that she would find the idea of a world where she could help others from a position of power without all of the death and chaos and destruction appealing, and her outrage at Rudolph for once again putting her in a position where she has to witness (and potentially be responsible for) terrible things happening to innocent people is believable. He proves that being a Gorotainian royal is like being the Last of The Time Lords. On a smaller scale, sure, but still. 

So the text (and Donna) have set up the idea of Rudolph being similar to the Doctor in role, so what is the difference? Rudolph doesn’t much care about people. He is willing to sacrifice his own people quite coldly.

The Doctor does care about people. How good of a person he is, or how good of a job he does caring for people is up for debate, but he cares.

Which all leads me to this quote from “Beautiful Chaos,” that I cannot believe is cannon and real and published.

Why does Donna love the Doctor?

"I wish you could see what I see. We've been to places, to worlds, to futures and pasts you could only dream about. I think half of them I dreamed up because they can't be real. But they are. And everywhere we go, we make a difference. We put things right, we make people happier. That's what the Doctor is all about. He finds a way for the universe to make sense. And I love him for it.”

Donna Noble wants to make a difference. No matter where she goes, she cannot escape the death and pain and suffering and chaos and nonsense that is the universe, and she can’t help but want to help. And right there beside her, the Doctor is working to put things right too. And she loves him for it.

We have this entire drama dedicated to Donna wanting to make a difference, while also escaping the darkness of the universe, and she learns she can’t. There are no happily ever afters.

Except with the Doctor.

I have so many feelings guys.

[airplanelanding]

23, 29, 30 morgwen👀👀

Ahhhh ok so whjfjanfjanf ahahahah ily aeon fuck I'm gonna make myself sad thinking about 29

23. Who comes up with cheesy pick up lines?

I mean, you'd think I'd say Gwen right? But it's so Morgana. She'd sike herself out trying to flirting with Gwen and just say the cheesiest thing, and while Gwen would be super nice about it at first, some time into their relationship she would bring it up randomly in the middle of the night,

"Hey remember when you said..."

And Morgana would just silently be cringing as Gwen relived all the cheesy and bad pickup lines Morgana defaulted to when she panicked when flirting, but not in like a mean or malicious way—just like fond teasing, amused but endeared by it.

29. one headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart

Morgana probably died thinking Gwen hated her for all she did, and despite all the wrong she did and how much she changed, she still loved her deep in her heart somewhere.

When Gwen heard of her death, she probably sat wondering what she could have done—reliving every moment before all the ✨evil morgana arc✨ happened and the moments leading to it, wondering what she could have done to prevent the events. Wondering why she didn't notice, how she didn't notice, grieving the death of both the woman she loved and the man she loved at the same time despite both fighting on opposite sides.

30. one headcanon about this OTP that mends it

They do each others hair. I just, i love to imagine them sitting in Morgana's chambers doing each others hair. Of course, Morgana has to convince Gwen at first to let her do her hair, but once she does the first time, it becomes a frequent occurrence—a bonding experience. They chat about mundane things, like their days and castle gossip, and it's just very soft and relaxing. It's the perfect break after a long day.

It's often quiet, they speak softly, in hushed tones, and sometimes they talk about Morgana's nightmares. Gwen offers comfort in the form of gentle touches on the shoulder and hand and sweet smiles.

Some nights Morgana falls asleep with her head in Gwen's lap, while she's brushing her hair. Gwen always let's her sleep, it's one of Morgana's favourite places to rest—next to Gwen.

Send me numbers

[sunnymusingsao3]

Coming Home ooor Morgwen pls

Wips Game II Accepting

How about both !

Coming Home Snippet:

Claire groaned, dropping her fist, and for a moment, everything was still. The two stared at each other, as silence rushed in, one half of the room smug, while the other was pretending that eye twitches at sixteen were totally normal.

And then the baby monitor flew across the room and smacked the creature dead in the face.

Bent still from the force with which she’d thrown the object, Claire watched as the plastic shattered against its skin, fragments and batteries thudding on the carpeted floor below.

There was stillness again.

Claire stared at the remnants of her improvised weapon, dreading the way that the heavy battery pack and thick plastic had done nothing against a monster the size of a Raggedy-Anne doll.

Her fear shifted into rage once again, however, as the imposter started laughing. Hard enough that it had to wipe tears from its eyes.

I'm particularly excited to explore the event where Claire finds out about Enrique before Jim tells her, since in this AU, it's unlikely he'd know before she does! I can't wait to get this one finished for posting, sometime this month, hopefully!

Morgwen Snippet:

A whap against her cheek rips her golden eyes from the avian tail of Morgan’s loose, sweeping hair, or the way her back looks in light, silver armor.

Making a quiet, startled noise, Guinevere reaches up to where a berry, red and plump, has splashed across her nose and cheek, just under her eye. She tries to swipe the mark from her face, but only manages to smear it further onto her cheekbone.

Just in time for Morgan to turn at the noise she’d made and watch Guinevere narrowly duck another tree branch, and her ensuing sharp-toothed grin is a beacon of white in the golden, dawning sun.

“How did you get so far behind?” Her voice is keen and rich, and spills with amusement in the cool wind through the trees. It’s almost sparkly in this forest, the wind of the wood; it has a certain shine, a particular twinkle, which echoes with myth and charm.

Guinevere feels it snap her ribbon, and whisk it deep into the woods, into the hands of some lucky creature of shadows and tricks.

It's highly probable that this idea-- an Arthurian legend re-telling involving a much more queer narrative-- might develop itself into an entire novella (or even novel depending on how ambitious the legs of this thing get), so there's a lot to be done for this, but Morgan and Guinevere are always nice to write for, so I've certainly been enjoying it so far! I hope you enjoy this snippet of one of their adventures as teens, trying to escape royal duties for the morning!

[supercorps-imaginesetc]

you make me smile, please stay for a while

A Gwen x Morgana Fic requested by @itsme2482

So, this was pretty blunt and I'm not creative so I added a dialogue prompt. And what's the ship name for Morgana and Gwen? Can we make it Morgwen? Anyways, enjoy.

-Admin Lily

It was already Morgwen. Gosh Lily  - Admin Cam Dialogue Prompt: "How was the meeting?" "I wanted to stab everyone." "Don't get blood on your dress. We're going to the feast tonight." "Love you for enabling me." "Love you too."

Gwen was cleaning when Morgana returned from the council meeting. She came in, immediately groaned, and collapsed face down on the bed. "How was the meeting?" Gwen asked, coming over to massage Morgana's shoulders. "I wanted to stab everyone." Morgana's voice came out muffled, but it clearly showed her distress. Gwen kept massaging her shoulders and said, "Don't get blood on your dress. We're going to the feast tonight." Morgana turns her face to the side to look at Gwen. Her smile is bright as she gazes at the girl. "Love you for enabling me." Gwen rolls her eyes and gets up, "Love you too, dear." Morgana frowns when Gwen rises and reaches up for her, "Come on and cuddle with me." The servant sighs and sits on the bed beside her lady. She pulls the woman close and Morgana gratefully snuggles closer. "Your dress is already wrinkled," Gwen says, amused. "Let it be wrinkled. I don't want to go to the stupid feast with the stupid lord," Morgana was complaining against the servant's dress now. Gwen couldn't help but smile. Morgana so rarely showed this childish side of hers. The side that wanted to cuddle and receive attention. She would indulge her lady whenever she needed it. "What's so bad about this 'stupid lord'?" Gwen asked. Morgana looked straight into her lover's eyes. They were sad and angry at the same time. "Uther wants me to marry him." Gwen felt a surge of panic come up in her chest. Morgana was hers. She couldn't marry some balding lord from Lord knows where! "He won't make you marry him, right. I mean... he won't force you," Gwen couldn't keep the worry out of her voice. "Oh, sweetheart," Morgana hug the girl tightly, "he can't make me do anything. Even if he could, I would make sure that nasty old lord wouldn't even want to marry me." She was now looking like the Morgana everyone knew with a smirk on her face, but her eyes were reassuring and that told Gwen she was sincere. "Good," the servant girl said, getting closer to her lady, "because you're mine." The brunette grinned at her girlfriend and said, "And you're mine."

Morgana pulled Gwen even closer and kissed her passionately. Gwen melted into the kiss while tangling her hands into the long locks of her lover.

Morgana pulls back slightly and looks Gwen in the eyes, “I love you, Guinevere.”

“I love you too, Morgana.”

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Marriage of Convenience

Prompt: A middle ages history major here! I love your writing so much!!! just an idea for u to marinate on if u want; since morgana was the only daughter with two brothers back then, even if the king was dead or incapable of ruling, she would still have to be married off before a son could regain the throne. So, if Arthur was real, he (and his partner) most likely be responsible for finding someone for his sister to marry. - anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: merthur, morgwen, mergwen, arwen, mergana, which ones are platonic and which ones romantic? who knows, not me

Word Count: 2329

Arthur sighs, bowing his head for a moment, before looking up. “Morgana.”

Morgana doesn’t turn, sitting up perfectly straight with her court face on, staring straight ahead.

“Morgana, please.”

“As you wish, My King,” she says, her voice perfectly even. Arthur winces.

“‘Gana, I don’t want this.”

“To my recollection,” she says, her voice sharpening with every word, “it does not matter what we want, but what honor and duty demand.”

“’Gana.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” She looks at him with such ferocity that he thinks he sees her eyes flash gold. “That I’m happy to do this for you? That of course, my loyalty to Camelot is so great that I would shackle myself to a man that does not understand that you and I do not have to marry to rule?”

“No, I don’t want you to say any of that.”

“Because I don’t, Arthur.” Morgana stands in a swirl of skirts and begins to pace angrily up and down the length of the room. “I can be your advisor, the paperwork has already been drawn up, and none of the Council would dare oppose it.”

“But then you couldn’t rule if I weren’t able to!”

Morgana pauses at his shout, turning to look as Arthur stands and braces his hands on the table.

“I want you to rule with me,” he says finally, “you know I do.”

The tiniest of nods.

“But you also know that if I wasn’t able to rule—either because I was killed or put under a curse or struck by some—some—something,” Arthur insists, “you would not be able to rule either. It would go to someone else, either the—“

“The pompous arse who thinks it’s still alright to eat with his mouth open or the sniveling coward who winces every time a strong breeze blows past.”

“…yes.”

Morgana takes a deep breath. She raises her chin. Arthur watches her, waiting, trying to sort through the arguments on the tip of his tongue, to lay things out in a way for them to work through it, for her to still make the ultimate decision, when she sighs again and her shoulders slump.

“…I don’t want this, Arthur.”

Arthur’s chest aches at the sheer defeat in Morgana’s voice, slowly crossing the room to stand next to her. She closes her eyes and rests her head against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, ‘Gana.”

She takes another breath. “If you marry me off to one of them, I will gut you in your sleep.”

He chuckles. “I know.”

They stand there for a moment longer together, breathing in the quiet before the storm.

“So,” Morgana says after a while, “who must I marry for the good of the kingdom?”

“I’m sure there’s a list of eligible noblemen somewhere,” Arthur sighs, pulling away and going to his desk, “we should…probably start there?”

Morgana watches him with idle amusement. “Why is it that you sound more dismayed by this process than I do?”

“Because, ‘Gana, you’re the one who’s actually going to marry the poor sod, and I’m going to be the one who hears about it for the rest of our lives.”

“Nonsense, I’ll have Gwen.”

“Right. Small mercies.”

“…is there seriously a list?”

Arthur gives her a look. “Out of all the things Uther Pendragon left to chance, do you really think your suitor would be one of them?”

“I suppose not.”

Still, when they finally get the list and it’s much, much shorter than they expected, they sigh.

“Do we think he had high expectations or are my prospects really this dismal?”

Arthur squints at the list of names. “All of these people either have…strategic value or their coffers are more than enough to make Camelot very, very comfortable.”

Morgana’s face pinches. He knocks his elbow against hers. “I’m fine, Arthur. I just—I never expected my marriage to be anything other than political.”

“…to be honest?” She looks up at him. “Neither did I.”

And oh, isn’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard? To have so much power and yet, just as trapped?

“Well, I assume these are not my only options.”

“No, not by a long shot.”

Morgana raises an eyebrow. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Arthur gives her a look. “I’m not going to explain that to you.”

“Oh, no, please,” Morgana says, folding her arms and grinning as Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, “explain this to me. Why do I have near limitless options, as you’ve so implied?”

“Morgana, you are having the King of Camelot—the King, mind you—“

“Oh, yes, and you’re very kingly.”

“—pick out your husband. I could quite literally name any man your husband.”

“But you won’t,” she says sweetly, “because I would gut you in your sleep.”

“Threatening a king is treason, you know.”

“Threatening my brother is my duty.”

“Oh, according to what?”

“Sorry, that’s a sister-only rule.” She taps her finger. “And that is not the only thing you were going to say.”

He turns to her. “Oh, oh, and you know this how? What else, pray tell, was I going to say?”

“You’re not going to tell me of my beauty?” She lifts a hand to trail through her hair in a mocking version of what all the other court ladies do. “Of how men would ride for days and nights to see me?”

“As if I need to boost your ego more.”

“If you’re going to be the one to write the letters asking for their hand in marriage—“

“I most certainly will not.”

“—then you must speak of my fine qualities as a wife,” she says, batting her eyes and snorting when Arthur fakes a retch. “Oh, please, save that for when I remind you that we were supposed to marry.”

They pause.

One beat.

Two.

“No.”

“No, no, it’d never work.”

“No, thank you, I’ll pass.”

“What a horrible idea.”

“Can’t believe you said that.”

“No, neither can I.”

“I should gut you just for that.”

“Do, it will put us both out of the misery of having to do this.”

“But then the kingdom would fall to—“

“Ah. Yes. Best not, then.”

“Mm.” Morgana takes one last look at the list and sighs. “So, where does that leave us?”

“You could always take one of the knights as a husband,” Arthur suggests, pouring them each a drink from the jug on his desk.

“True.” She accepts it. “But which one?”

“Given your…opinions of the knights, I’m sure you’ve got a few in mind.” He gives her a look. “Or one, in particular.”

She hides her face behind the rim of the goblet as she takes a sip. “Hush.”

“No, really, I think that you’ve got one in mind,” Arthur smirks. “It’s not like you’ve ever said anything about it, nor have you insisted that there was a better candidate to train with you.”

“Arthur.”

“Really, I can’t imagine you having more than one knight in mind, though I’m sure I could guess.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure Gwaine will be thrilled.”

“I don’t—Gwaine?” Morgana looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “It’s not Gwaine, what on earth are you talking about?”

Arthur bursts out laughing as she realizes she’s taken the bait. She slumps back into the chair and takes another drink.

“…well done,” she admits with grudging respect.

“Well,” he manages once he’s got control of himself, “I did learn from you.”

He waits a moment before continuing.

“I’m sure Leon would be honored,” he says, kinder now, “if you were to be wed.”

Morgana sighs, idly swirling the goblet. “I know. And he…he would be a good husband.”

“He would.”

She sighs again. “But he wouldn’t be happy.”

“No?” Arthur leans against the table. “Why not?”

“Because he would be obligated to leave his position to fulfill his sacred duties as a husband.” Morgana looks up at him. “And nothing in the world has given him as much purpose, contentment, or honor, as being the knight he is for the kingdom.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “And how do you know that?”

Morgana levels a glare at him. “Because unlike everyone else in this godforsaken kingdom, when I want to know something from someone, I talk to them.”

“Your tone is very pointed right now.”

“Wonder why that could be.”

“Morgana…”

“Oh, come off it!” She throws herself out of the chair with such ferocity that Arthur stumbles back. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’ve been dancing around it the whole time!”

“Morgana, I—“ Arthur holds his hands out— “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Who are you going to wed, Arthur?”

Arthur stops. He blinks. “What?”

“You, Arthur, who are you going to wed?” Morgana stares daggers at him. “We both know that our marriages would be political. If I am being wed, then the things not covered by my marriage should be covered by yours. And if neither of us is clear on that, then—then—“

She throws her hands up.

“Then we may as well not have this discussion.”

Arthur watches her, his mouth hanging open. She glares at him and he shuts it with a click, before swallowing.

“…Morgana, I…the reason I wanted to do this was to make sure you could rule.”

“But I can’t unless I have a child.”

“Then I want you to have a child with someone who could help you raise them the way you want them raised,” Arthur says without missing a beat, “but I don’t—I—I don’t know how to do that.”

“Because you’re not thinking.”

“I’m trying, ‘Gana.”

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

“‘Gana—“

“Arthur,” she interrupts, “your marriage is going to be looked at even more than mine. What will it say that I get married before you do?”

“I don’t know, what will it say?”

“It will say the King does not understand the value of political marriages, as he has wed his sister off so quickly,” Morgana says, staring at him, “it will say that the King’s sister, in her marriage, has potentially ruined future alliances by being wed. It will say that—“

“Okay, okay,” Arthur sighs, “I get the point, we should marry at the same time.”

“Or at least similar ones.”

“But that doesn’t…that doesn’t explain why you said it like that.”

Morgana sighs. “Just because my marriage has to be political doesn’t mean that yours has to be.”

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. She…is she…

“You’re the King,” she murmurs, “and if anyone should have the power to marry for love, then…then it should be you.”

“…’Gana…”

The weight of what she’s saying, what she’s offering, hits him square in the chest as if a horse had just run him over. He struggles for words, for breath, for anything, and can’t find it.

“Gwen, I assume,” Morgana’s voice comes after a moment, “she…I see the way you two look at each other and talk about each other.”

But Arthur’s shaking his head before she finishes. “No, that…that would also be a political marriage.”

Morgana frowns. “With Gwen?”

“Yes. I…” He swallows. “She would make an excellent Queen. An incredible Queen. But…”

“But what, you don’t…love her?”

Arthur swallows. “And I don’t think she loves me. Not like a husband should love his wife, not like a wife should love her husband.”

“But all of that, before, when you—“

“It was the worst thing I could do in Uther’s eyes,” Arthur says wearily, “and she was…she was the first friend I had in…ages.”

He looks up at her as he collapses into a chair.

“I don’t think she cares for me like that either, and I think you know that.”

Morgana sighs. “Well, there goes that.”

“Besides,” Arthur says, shifting, “her loyalty wouldn’t be mine first and foremost anyway.”

“No?”

“She’d be loyal to Camelot and me by proxy, yes, but…” Arthur looks up. “I think we both know who really has her loyalty, don’t we?”

A faint blush touches the tops of Morgana’s cheeks. “Yes, well, the same could be said of Merlin.”

“Merlin?”

“Oh, come on, like he isn’t the first friend you’ve ever had,” Morgana teases, “and he’d walk to hell and back for you.”

“So? What does that have to do with…” Arthur trails off. “Oh.”

“Now he gets it.”

“Oh.”

“Come on, I should get at least some thanks for making you get this far, I mean, you wouldn’t have done it on your own.”

“Oh, no.”

“Everything alright in there?” She reaches out to gingerly poke his forehead. “Does everything still work?”

He swats her hand away. “Shut up.”

“Come on,” she says again, a little softer this time, “just…just talk to him? Please? If not to spare the rest of the castle your pining?”

“Only if you talk to Gwen,” he retorts, “you two aren’t much better.”

“What good could come of that?”

“What good could come of me talking to Merlin?”

“Well, it’s not like I can marry Gwen!”

“And it’s not like I can marry Merlin!”

They stop.

They stare at each other.

And when poor Gwen and Merlin come into their chambers later, they barely have a moment to catch their breath before, suddenly, the two rulers of Camelot have become the four rulers of Camelot.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Oldstones

Prompt: I got a prompt for you! (but no pressure if you don't wanna): The knights discover that Merlin is incredibly musically gifted but shy about it, and they try to make him see how talented he really is - aeonthedimensionalgirl

*vibes in playlists*

Read on Ao3

Warnings: it's fluff all the way down bois

Pairings: merthur, morgwen, can be platonic or romantic I don't care

Word Count: 2604

Merlin is allowed to keep secrets, yes, but that doesn’t stop people from wanting to find them out.

Come on, the man is literally the most conspicuous person in the castle, one doesn’t rise to that title without sparking at least half a dozen gossip trains each day. Whether it’s where he was when the King was in his private chambers with the knights standing guard, whether it’s how the speech the King hadn’t written is finished by the next morning, whether it’s how often things mysteriously show up just where they need to be…

There are rumors that he sneaks away from the castle at night. No one knows where he goes. Because it definitely isn’t the tavern.

But one doesn’t get Merlin without the host of people that surround him. Arthur, the King, of course. Gaius, the Royal Physician. Morgana, the Queen Regent, at least until her proper coronation. Gwen, who holds the ear of the servants in the castle—the real power here.

And the knights. Brothers, ’til the end. And Merlin is one of them. They couldn’t care less about the rumors flying around unless they hurt Merlin. Then, well, all bets are off. But Merlin is theirs and if there’s nothing wrong, they won’t ask questions.

That is until, of course, there is something that he really should’ve told them.

There is a negotiation with a neighboring lord about whether or not the knights will be allowed passage through his land on patrols. Arthur sends the knights and Merlin to go a broker a brief agreement with representatives before he can join them. The negotiations are long and offset by the fact that the leader keeps shooting narrow-eyed glances at Merlin.

“You sure we haven’t met before,” they ask for the fifth time, “you seem…familiar.”

“I can assure you,” he says, for the fifth time, “I would remember.”

Gwaine and Percival exchange a look. They’re making no headway, the leader is unwilling to accept anything as trade. If they don’t find something soon, the fingers itching towards swords will find their marks sooner or later.

Then Merlin sneezes.

He apologizes for interrupting the negotiations, only for the leader’s right hand to slap their knee and point accusingly at him.

“I knew it,” they crow, triumphant, “you’re the songbird!”

Merlin blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The songbird,” they repeat, standing, “you’re the one who sings in the abandoned arena.”

Well, that certainly explains where Merlin’s been sneaking off to if the way the tips of his ears turn red is anything to go off of. It certainly doesn’t help his case that a few more people run into the room, some of them children, and gasp when they realize that someone’s found the songbird.

“My apologies,” Merlin manages after a moment, the embarrassment still blooming on his cheeks, “I didn’t realize that anyone would—that I—that you could hear me.”

“But your voice is so pretty,” one of the children cries, “will you sing something for us now?”

“Oh, do the one about being happier!”

“No, no, the one about being a bad liar.”

“Ooh! Ooh! Or the one about the bright lights!”

“I’m quite partial to the ‘stay with me’ one,” another lieutenant remarks.

The knights look on, half amused, half bemused, as the requests pile up. Only when Merlin’s mortification begins to seep past his facade do they have mercy.

“That’s enough,” Elyan says gently to the children, “we don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“Don’t we,” Gwaine mutters.

“Well,” Merlin says before Leon can respond, “I believe we’ve found something you want.”

The leader regards him for a moment. Their face twists as they think.

“…and how am I supposed to know that you are the pretty little songbird that’s been singing in there?” They look him up and down. “You could just be using that as a convenient excuse.”

The right-hand snorts. “No one else kriffing sneezes like that.”

Lancelot hides a snort behind a cough.

“You are correct that we cannot offer you anything material or legal in exchange for the deal,” Merlin says, still heroically fighting the blush on his cheeks, “but perhaps this will suffice instead?”

“Entertainment,” they muse, tilting their head back and forth, “a tempting offer.”

“A song for the deal?”

“Not just one song,” the leader huffs, “more.”

They glance back at the knights.

“What you’re asking of us, it’s a lot. That’s a lot of money we’re losing. Damages, labor, replanting.” They glance at the lieutenant. “How much?”

“Three thousand.”

The leader whistles. “That’s pretty steep.”

Their attention shifts back to Merlin.

“Three thousand, huh? Three hours.” They lean forward, their eyes on Merlin’s face. “That’s about how long you normally spend in that old arena. Three hours.”

Merlin nods. “When?”

The leader’s smile grows. “Tomorrow evening, little songbird, when the lord and your king can come to watch.”

They ride back to camp with the paperwork of the deal completed, Gwaine teasing poor Merlin about his habit of sneaking out to an old abandoned arena and singing. Leon watches on, not bothering to hide his smile, as Merlin’s embarrassment fills the air. At one point he shoots him a look that clearly says ‘are you not going to help me?’

The one he sends back makes it clear that this is more than enough entertainment for him.

“Alright,” Lancelot says eventually when he sees Merlin’s jaw start to wobble, the line of embarrassment to humiliation much shorter than he would like, “that’s enough, leave him be. After all, the songbird has to perform tonight, don’t make him lose his voice before he closes the deal.”

“I’ll take it,” Merlin mutters.

They do thank Merlin for agreeing to do this when they get to camp. Leon slaps him on the shoulder and congratulates him for being willing to do it.

“It’s fine,” Merlin says, shuffling a little next to the fire, “I just…wasn’t expecting it.”

“Well, no,” Gwaine sighs loudly, “I also wasn’t expecting to find out that one of my oldest friends is a songbird.”

“Merlin’s your oldest friend?” Elyan snorts. “How bad are you at making friends?”

“Oi!”

“No, wait, seriously, do you have no other friends?”

“I have friends!”

“Really? Who are they?”

Merlin grins as the topic of conversation steers away from him and more toward Gwaine’s apparent inability to make friends. Well, meaningful friends. People you down pints in the tavern with don’t really count—no they don’t, Gwaine.

Of course, just because the knights are getting distracted doesn’t mean Leon is getting distracted.

“How long have you been able to sing for, Merlin,” he asks softly, too unobtrusive for the others to notice, “did your mother teach you?”

The tips of Merlin’s ears redden again. “No.”

“It’s alright, Merlin,” he says softly, “there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, it’s alright.”

“It’s—it’s—“ he shifts— “it’s nothing.”

“If the lord was ready to make a deal over the promise of your voice, that’s not nothing, Merlin.” Leon frowns when Merlin just keeps shifting uncomfortably. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“That’s alright.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Never,” he promises gently, “not if it’s worrying you this much.”

Merlin shifts a little more. “…I’m not actually that good.”

“Lie.”

Merlin’s head jerks around as Leon glances over his shoulder to see Lancelot watching them. The knight nods toward the other three who are now arguing about the precise alcohol quantity of some tavern drink as he scoots closer.

“Lie,” he repeats softly, “I’ve heard you sing, Merlin, you’re incredible.”

“Did you—“ Merlin splutters— “did you follow me?”

“No,” Lancelot says, raising his hands, “but the patrols do go there from time to time.”

Merlin buries his face in his hands. How many people have heard him?

“Shh,” Lancelot says, bringing his hands away, “you’ll do great. And if you don’t, we’ll be the ones who suffer the consequences for agreeing to a ridiculous deal.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

“Because it was the first thing they suggested that wasn’t entirely unreasonable.”

“You think this is reasonable?”

“Well, yes, compared to the thirteen caskets of gold, two barrels of opals, and six cartloads of mead.”

“It will be fine, Merlin,” Leon promises, “don’t worry so much.”

Merlin is plenty worried, thank you very much, especially when Arthur, Morgana, and Gwen show up the next day to look very very confused at what the deal has turned out to be. Arthur is fully intent on teasing Merlin mercilessly about his singing only for Leon and Lancelot to shoot him a death glare. He shrugs. He can do it perfectly well afterward.

The lord meets with them, they sit in their places of honor, and Gwaine cups Merlin’s elbow as he steps onto the stage.

“Ready, songbird?”

He sighs. “Are you going to keep calling me that?”

Gwaine just grins.

Merlin looks…small on the stage, they realize, despite the fact that he looks right.

Then he begins to sing.

Gods.

Three hours feel like an eternity, collapsed into an instant. His voice lifts and soars, pouring into the air like an endless well. The happy songs send them into the stratosphere, the sad ones drop them into the planet’s core. Arthur reaches blindly for Morgana’s hand at one point and they cling to each other, there in the upper corners of the theatre.

One song reaches deep into Morgana’s chest and tugs in too many places to be unfamiliar. Wrapped up in power, unable to use it properly, cultivated as a thing, a cog in a machine, trapped. A dangerous flare in her gut, reached only by the way Merlin’s aura hides reluctant darkness, one borne on necessity and resentment.

One song pushes back against Arthur’s shields, calls out to a child. A child, too soon knighted, too soon forced into the mold of the perfect King, still raw from years and years of being overlooked, not being chosen, not being wanted. It calls out in remorse, in mourning for someone lost long ago yet could not be grieved because they’re still here, just buried under layers and layers of armor. The person they used to be.

One song hurts them both.

They’re not sure how long it’s been when Merlin stops for a moment, smiling, before he takes a moment to talk about the next song.

He says that there is a tale, an old one, about a soldier. A legendary warrior, impervious to all harm, except for one spot on his body. His heel. When his mother held him as she bathed him in power, something that would keep him safe, keep him invulnerable. What she did not realize is that her son did not have just physical weaknesses, nor that her son’s supposed invulnerability would keep people from realizing that he was a person too.

He says that the story tells of someone very important to this warrior, someone who realized that he was human, first and foremost, and that someone was taken away. Murdered. And what good was that invulnerability if he could not protect the one he loved? The warrior was only human, after all, and humans make mistakes. And they need to be reminded that’s all they are, behind all the power, all the invulnerability, they’re human.

The name of the warrior?

Achilles.

His voice has a sense of urgency now, one that they’ve only heard once before. When a squire, suddenly happy after months of being lost in their own head, climbed to the highest balcony in the castle and stood there, wobbling in the wind.

The song climbs, higher, and higher, the urgency growing, his light shining brighter and brighter.

Then the trick.

Another voice, dark and distorted, a twisted version of him, ringing out in the theater despite the fact that his mouth is closed. Gasps and shock as the audience tries to figure out what the trick is, how this is happening, too caught up in the thrill of the performance to care that it might be magic. The dark voice whispers temptation, scorns the others, tells the warrior to jump.

Morgana does not let go of Arthur and Arthur will not let go of Morgana.

The dark voice sings alongside Merlin, the theater caught in the storm of his making. The dark voice vanishes into a whisper, Merlin all but pleading the warrior to come down.

As the last verse starts, he looks directly at them.

There is no more facade, no more roles for him to play. This is Merlin, singing to them. The concert may be for the deal, this song is theirs.

Throw yourself into the unknown

With pace and a fury defiant.

Clothe yourself in beauty untold

And see life as a means to a triumph.

Today of all days, see

How the most dangerous thing is to love

How you will heal and you'll rise above.

Crowned by an overture bold and beyond

Ah, it's more courageous to overcome.

When the song ends and the spell is broken, the whole theater has to take a moment to breathe.

There are more songs, more that touch different people in different ways.

“I will say this,” Morgana whispers, still blinking away tears, “I don’t see them backing out of the deal.”

Arthur can’t find the words to reply.

Too soon, Merlin announces that the next song is the last one. The theater crows in protest, Arthur and Morgana among them, despite themselves. A strange look crosses his face as he raises an eyebrow.

“No? You don’t want to leave?”

Another round of ‘no’ goes up.

“But we have to,” he says softly, his voice still ringing as if surrounded by old stone halls, “we can’t stay here, as much as we want to. We have to keep going. We can’t be the rock that the water beats away at, we’ll be worn to nothing.”

To their surprise, he sits.

“…or we’ll fade into ghosts.” He looks around. “But we’d like to stay here, for a moment longer, with the ghosts, yes?”

At the noises of agreement, he smiles. “Then let’s do a different song for the last one.”

And oh, what a song he chooses.

It’s not as vocally impressive as some of the other ones, nor does it tug on their heartstrings as painfully. But this one, more than any other song he’s sung tonight, sounds like Merlin.

A girl, dancing in the ruins of an old stone castle with the ghosts of her loved ones. Season after season, year after year, until she too became a ghost, dancing with them once again.

They can almost feel hands on their shoulders.

The song ends and the deal is complete. The leader approaches to have a quiet word with Merlin before he exits the theater and waits. The lord stumbles to Arthur and Morgana, almost in a trance, with the promise to ride behind them to Camelot to officially sign the deal the next morning. Arthur is only conscious enough to nod and murmur a reply. Morgana isn’t much better. The knights have already formed a protective huddle around Merlin as they return to camp, the little songbird all sung out.

When they get back to camp, Merlin barely has time to thank them for coming before Arthur pulls him into a hug.

“No,” he whispers, “thank you.”