Morgana's engagement (Patreon)

Dread was steadily brewing in Morgana as she watched the ships sail in
that morning. It wasn’t their arrival that was peculiar; every few days, ships
came and went, carrying mail and goods and passengers. It was as mundane
as the sun setting and rising. They pierced the dense mist around Avalon with
the same confidence they parted waters, and docked in the port down by the market.

These ships flew the red and gold banners of the Pendragon that Morgana
had come to loathe while everyone else seemed to forgive. Forgive the atrocities and injustices committed under it. But she couldn’t. When she looked at the red, all she could see was the blood that had been spilt.

This wasn’t the oddity that had set her on edge, either. Nowadays, with
the whole Continent under Uther’s foot, all the ships faring from it fluttered
the Pendragon banner. No, what made Morgana’s stomach squirm like a pit of
vipers was the particular formation of the ships - all protectively sailing around
the biggest, most ornate of them all.

”Looks like a royal proceeding,” one of the apprentices voiced what Morgana
thought.

A royal proceeding fit for a King.

Sometimes, she saw Uther in her dreams. In her nightmares, he stood laughing above her, sword drenched in crimson blood. In her fantasies, she was the
one with blood stained hands looming over him.

She didn’t realize she was clenching her hands until Junia’s palm wrapped
around her fist. She leaned in close, ginger curls tickling her cheek as she
whispered, ”It may not be him.” They didn’t need to say who he was.

Morgana didn’t reply. She flexed her fingers, considered the crescent shapes
she’d dug into her palm. Anything to look at but those lurid red flags. Taunting
her as they proudly sailed the skies.

”Even if it were him,” Morgana whispered through gritted teeth, ”what
could he possibly want from me? Hasn’t he already taken everything?” The
water lapping at her feet rose higher, reaching up to her hitched up robes.
Growing agitated with every new wave.  

Junia bit her lips, twisted them, thinned them, going through different
pained expressions before settling on a strained smile. ”Come, let’s ask High
Priestess Cecilia to let us go home.” She tugged, and Morgana followed. The
waves around them calmed down.

The apprentices were gathered near the Temple of the Lady of the Lake,
treading through the shallows of the sea, practising tricks with the water, though after an hour of practice, half of them had turned from gracefully guiding water through the air to playfully splashing each other. High Priestess Cecilia was watching the ships herself with mild interest, absent-mindedly adjusting her mantle and playing with the apple tree brooch fastening it.

With a pleasant smile and gentle voice, Junia weaseled them out of the rest of their lesson. Morgana doesn’t feel so well, may I see her home? and
here Morgana supplied as proof a truly wretched act, holding her hand to her
furrowed temple. And just like that they were excused and sent on their way
with well-wishes and worried glances.

Junia had a way with people - a genuine sweetness and kind disposition
that they found endearing. Morgana’s watched, trying to cultivate that same
sweetness. Like a rose, luring you in close with its perfume - only for its thorns
to strike. Morgana was particularly good at that.

They slipped on their sandals, made their way across the beach. Winding
through cobblestone streets, Junia talking lightly of anything but Camelotian
kings or ships.

”You’re home early,” Marcellus remarked as they entered the garden. All
around them, branches hung heavy with ripe fruits and blooming flowers. Each
breeze spread a heady aroma anew, underlined by the crisp, salty air of the sea.
Marcellus set down his book. His brow furrowed ever so slightly. ”Did something happen?”

”Maybe we just conducted our routine exercises so well they had to let us
off early,” Morgana retorted and he chuckled, but the frown persisted.

”Morgana didn’t feel quite right,” Junia explained. From the house’s perch
on the cliff, they couldn’t see the dock, but Morgana was sure the ships must
be reaching it soon.

”Well, then, why don’t you relax? I’ll bring you some iced tea and fruit
tarts.”

”You’re the best, dad,” Junia beamed. ”We’ll be in the inner courtyard.”

They settled in the inner courtyard among the hibiscus shrubs, spreading
their potion making kits across the iron wrought table. They’d gathered ingredients over the last few days to prepare their own perfume and eye tint, and while Junia could never get the measurements quite right, she enjoyed herself nonetheless.

Morgana found herself slowly unwinding as she stirred her brew and stopped
Junia before she could add too much powder to her own. She sipped on her
honeyed, cool tea, listened to the potion simmering faintly over the fire she’d
summoned with a flick of her wrist.

”No, no,” she chuckled, putting down her drink. ”You have to do it slower.
Let me show you.”

Footfalls. Both froze.

Heavy, many, pounding up the street at a brisk step.

The early afternoon was hot, but a cold shiver ran down Morgana’s back.
She jumped to her feet, drawing closer to the open door. All senses sharply,
painfully focused on that rhythmic marching, and the muffled voices carried on
the breeze.

Listening out for his voice.

The steps grew louder, and Morgana had a feeling they would not be fading
away farther up the street.

Gravel crunched under their feet before they halted altogether, and Morgana
knew them to be in the garden. In front of their house.

A voice boomed, announcing the dreaded presence. ”His Majesty, King
Uther Pendragon of Camelot!” She could just imagine the page, holding that
bloody banner.

Worst, she could see his smug smirk painted behind her eyes. Seared into
memory, straight from her nightmares.

His name alone incited the snake nest in her stomach yet again. Squirming,
writhing, twisting. Her fingers curled tightly around the door frame.

”Morgana!” Junia grabbed her elbow. She pointed helplessly back at the
table, where Morgana’s brew had poured over, boiling furiously. She waved a
hand, extinguishing the fire but spilling her clay goblet in the process. It fell
over the edge in a cascade of tea and spun woefully across the flagstones.

Morgana stepped into the hall, stalked along the wall towards the end. She
opened the atrium door just enough to peek through it and the front room’s
windows.

There was a royal envoy in their garden. Through the atrium window, only Marcellus’ ginger curls and the red and gold tunics of guards were visible.
”Well, won’t you invite us inside?” Merlin’s smooth, cajoling voice. She’d
recognize its honeyed cadence anywhere. ”The journey has not been easy, and
a King should be well received.”

Marcellus held himself undaunted. ”May I remind his Majesty that we are
on Avalon. This is not his domain, and I may freely turn around unexpected
guests.”

”No, I am not be your King, but the girl under your roof is my daughter.”
Uther spoke with a jaunty voice fit for an actor - or a General, shouting his
victory to an army of thousands. It carried, clear and booming. Too loud, as if
it wanted to be the only sound taking over your ears, as if it wanted to rattle
you to the bones.

”Daughter my ass,” Morgana bristled and the water in the atrium pool
sloshed around indignantly. Junia’s damp palm clasped around her forearm.

”If it’s what the King demands then, he may encroach on my hospitality for
a bit.”

Morgana was rooted to the place. Uther entered first. Of course. Who else
but the so called King could enter first, even in a land not his own? He sauntered in as if he owned the place, hands on his hips, already crossing halfway into the room in just a couple big steps.

Her breath came short and quick.

Next was Royal Sorcerer Merlin. Walking poised, hands clasped behind his
back, head held high. Gaze extensively shifting around, as if he were admiring
the interior design. But Morgana knew. He always watched, always weighted
with sharp eyes and mind alike. She retreated from the slit in the door, lest he
spied her.

Boots continued to patter on the mosaic, but all Morgana could focus on
were the two men who stepped in first. She was seized by a feverish anger - her
skin crawled, her whole frame shook, overtaken by uncontrollable shivers.

They were here. In her house, in her home, the only thing separating them
a feeble wooden door, pressed against her back. She wasn’t quite sure who it
should be protecting the other from. Her fingers sank into her skirt, gripping
the fabric till she could feel her nails against her skin through it. Her thoughts
careened around, like the clay goblet spinning around the flagstone.

”Boiling water over here?” Uther gibed. What nonsense was he speaking?

”Morgana, your powers,” Junia jostled her shoulder. ”We must go.” Junia
pulled, and it was enough to kickstart Morgana, too. They ran down the hall
back to the inner garden. Junia led her to a chair, squeezed her hands, told her
to inhale and exhale. Slowly, slowly. The girl herself didn’t seem quite able to
take her own advice.

”What do we do, what do we do...” Junia paced in circles and almost slipped
on the spilt tea. ”And papa’s not home, dad will have to manage on his own.”

”I’d say he’s managing quite fine anyway,” Morgana assured her, smile sharp
and dangerous. ”How I wish I saw their faces.”

Junia laughed, but it sooner resembled a whimper. She opened her mouth
to say something, but it got lost in another helpless sound as her eyes turned
to the door.

”Good afternoon, my ladies.” Anyone else watching may be fooled by his
spectacle - his amicable smile, his suave voice. If Uther merely fit the role of an
actor, Merlin truly was one.

Morgana sat up abruptly. It was no good manners dictating her actions, but
that hot anger, setting all her nerves on fire.

Merlin ambled in, short velvet cape swaying around his lean frame. Wanting
to catch your eye, with its subdued but intricate golden embroidery. Rich,
sophisticated, a deep crimson. Might as well be dyed in the blood of those he
had to tread on to get where he is.

”I see you girls were practising potion-making.” He picked up a wooden
spoon and scooped Morgana’s unfortunate, over boiled concotion. ”I heard you
have quite the talent.”

”Would you like a demonstration?” Morgana fixed him as he examined the
liquid. ”I could easily brew a poison and slip it in your drink.”

He just laughed breezily.

”Merlin, you little demon, where have you vanished off to?” Uther’s jolly
voice echoed down the hall. ”Ah.” He appeared in the doorframe, filling it up.

Filling up all of Morgana’s vision, too.

”Well, well,” he grinned. ”If it isn’t my one and only daughter.”

”Don’t you dare fucking call me that!” The hibiscus shrubs wailed in the
sudden wind, the lemons trees cowered.

Uther scoffed, amused. For all of her power, that agitated the waters and
bowed the trees and cracked the earth, it was still him that held the true power,
and he knew it.

”It’s what the papers say, Morgana. Very legal stuff, you know,” he spoke
as if to a child. ”Not even a King can go over them. Well...unless he wants to.”

They stared at each other. Morgana felt trapped in a vicious cycle. Her
torment fed his delight, and his delight in turn kindled her fury.

”Morgana!” Marcellus shot through the door ahead of the guards streaming
in to reach her side. He grasped her shoulders, touch tender over her tense
muscles. ”Legal papers or not,” he said, struggling to stay calm. ”I’d really
appreciate it if you wouldn’t perturb my daughters quite so.”

”Of course not, of course not!” Uther pulled a chair, scrapping its legs against
the flagstone. Threw himself on it with a heavy sigh and slapped his thighs. ”Let’s have a drink.”

Marcellus pressed a kiss against her forehead, whispered ”Hang in there,
dear,” then left for the kitchen.

Uther smiled up at Morgana, pointed at a chair. ”Sit down.” As if this was
a completely normal afternoon tea, and they hadn’t barged into their home.

As if she wasn’t standing across from the man who killed her family.

Morgana took the seat farthest from him, and Junia huddled next to her. Merlin put himself between them. The guards stood up, poised in a tight circle around them in the small garden. Marcellus returned with a tray of clay goblets. Uther sneered at its content.

”What is this?”

”Lemon honey tea. Your Majesty.”

He shoved it back to Marcellus. ”You bring me something stronger, not that
piss.”

Morgana had rarely seen her adopted dad so angry. His usually rosy skin
matched the red of his curls now. Merlin, on the other hand, accepted the drink graciously. Poison or not, Morgana hoped he choked on his tea.

Once the King was supplied with a glass of lemon liqueur - the one Marcellus
had just brewed, which they sipped on just a few nights ago in the latern-lit
garden - his mood subdued to what could be called almost earnest. Somehow, it unnerved Morgana even more.

”Morgana, look at you. You’ve grown so much. You’re a young woman
now.”

Her stomach coiled and an acidic taste rose to her tongue.

”How old are you now, sixteen summers?”

”Fifteen,” she spat.

He waved his big hand. ”As your father-”

”Don’t,” Morgana hissed, her lemon honey tea boiling all over again in her
cup.

”-I’ve been thinking, what’s best for your future?”

Marcellus piped in, ”Morgana’s training to become a Priestess.”

”So I’ve heard,” Merlin brought his cup to his lips, sipping slowly. ”I’ve heard you’re very skilled as well. And I see you're quite good at manipulating water, too.” He gave the bubbling goblet in her hands a pointed look.

”But that’s not good enough for you, Morgana,” Uther continued. ”You’ve
got royal blood. And that’s why I’ve secured a brilliant arrangement for you.
Marriage to Lot Leudonus, Duke of Lothia...”

Morgana couldn’t hear another word past the vicious hissing of her boiling
tea. The clay hit its breaking point, and with an ear-piercing scream, exploded. Shards covered her lap and the flagstones. Guards pulled out their swords,
sharp tips pointing at her. Marcellus yelled, Junia grasped her arm, but all she
could focus on was Uther’s smug grin.

She jumped up, and the swords followed her. Uther waved for them to stand
back. Yet another unabashed flaunt of his power over her. Even now, among
shards and spilt tea and a garden of furiously rustling leaves, she was the weak
one.

Junia wrapped an arm around her, guided her into the house. She let her lead her on numb legs into their bedchamber, to the water basin in the corner. Let her submerge her hands in the lukewarm water.

”What are you-”

”Your hands, Morgana.”

She looked at them. They were swelled and bloodied. Burnt and
cut, clay shards sticking out of wounds. Seeing them finally set her nerves in
action, and pain came in sharp and blazing. Junia’s own hands shook as she hovered them over hers, an urgent prayer pouring from trembling lips. She tripped over her own words, yet the wounds healed slow, painfully slow. But Morgana almost welcomed the pain. Something to distract her from the words careening through her mind.

An arranged marriage.

Her enslavement, made all so legal, it’s all Morgana saw. Teardrops dripped into the water basin, over her hands which were now healed. Morgana took in a ragged breath. When she released it, it turned into a sob that shook her whole frame.

”Duke Lot, Junia! Duke Lot. Do you know who he is?”

”I...I think so?” she whimpered between her own tears. Arms wrapped
around Morgana.

Morgana shook her head. She knew. She’d studied each and every one of
the people who’d played a part in this war. The ones who surrendered, the ones
who stood their ground, the ones who rose when others fell.

And Lot Leudonus, he surrendered. With no fight at all.

Uther’s good friend. Such a good friend, he lent Uther his army, to destroy
everything in its path as it marched into Tintal.

She’d underlined his name in red.

Morgana pulled away from Junia, walked through the hurricane of scrolls and
clothes that she’d summoned, to the windows. The curtains billowed around her as she threw them open.

”Where are you going?” Even as she asked, Junia followed.

”I need to get away for a while.” She hauled herself up and threw her legs
over the sill. Junia came next, landing on wobbling feet.

They scaled the stone wall circling the house, pulling and pushing each other
to make it over. And then they ran. They ran through houses and shrubs and
trees, holding hands. They ran until Morgana’s lungs stung and flamed and
Junia’s breathing came stertorously into her ear.

They didn’t slow their frenzied run until the houses grew sparse and gave way
to the forest. They moved slowly but steadily, almost in a trance, determined
not to stop until they reached the destination Morgana had in mind.

It felt like hours had passed when she spotted the glimmer of still water
through the trees. The small lake sat within a meadow, and while it was not
the famous lake in the heart of Avalon, where the Goddess had been known to
appear, it was the closest to their home.

Morgana sank to her knees in front of the water, allowing exhaustion to
finally catch up with her, to feel the searing pain in her calves. She clutched the
grass in her palms, which itched and tingled with the flames buzzing just under
her skin. The lake stirred, water lapping at the bank. As if trying to extend
cool, comforting hands to her. As if rioting and rustling in accordance with her
anguished anger.

Junia fell next to her, arms wrapped around her shoulders. Morgana drew
a deep, rattling breath...And then once again broke into tears.

And nature cried with her.

The trees bend and wailed a song of fury and lament; the water sloshed
and rose as if held within a cup in trembling hands; the wind whipped her
tear-streaked face, stinging her watery eyes and roaring in her ears to the wild
rhythm of her own pulse; and the ground beneath her scorching hands cracked,
shallow clefts spreading out around her.

Morgana wasn’t sure when the tears stopped. She leaned against Junia.
Wrung out and bled dry, the front of her dress sodden. They lingered like
this until the sun slipped past the trees, shadows looming long and gloomy.
Somewhere past them, she could imagine the sun plunging further down past
the mist, to be swallowed by the sea.

When they returned to the house, the front lanterns burnt away, the sky a
deep purple like a bruise. They slipped quietly into the atrium, cast in somber
shadows. The draperies to the library were drawn, but a sliver of golden light
trickled through, along with a tense conversation.

Gaius’ tone was firm, and less patient than Marcellus’. ”I do not care what
threats you brandish around, Your Majesty.” The honorific might as well have
been an insult. ”But I am not handing over my daughter.”

Morgana’s lips twisted in a bittersweet smile.

”I don’t think you understand,” came Uther’s voice. Still so casual, still so
loud, but with a clear, sharp undertone of a threat. It wiped the smile right off
her face. ”But you don’t have a choice.” He punctured his words with a thud, a goblet slammed down on the table. ”Our lands have been amicable up until
now. Wouldn’t want to sour things, would you?”

Gaius laughed, the sound short and dry. ”Threatening war now?”

”My good men,” Uther began, with a cheerfulness that did not match his
words. ”We can do this the easy way. Help the girl pack her bags tonight, bid
your goodbyes. Or I can make your lives a nightmare.”

A pause. The very air seemed to still. Frozen in an ice cold tension.

Oh, Uther was a master at ruining people. Running havoc and splintering
families, with no regard or regret for the destruction he left behind. Taking
wicked delight in every pain inflicted.

”I think you should leave, Your Majesty,” Gaius broke the silence.

The men did not break. The men who took her in and treated her as their
own daughter. The men who showered her with the kindness and affection
that’d been stolen from her. Who helped her put together the shattered shards
of her life, to fill the gaping, dark hole she had for a heart. And here came Uther, to yet again take everything from her.

The men did not break, but Morgana did.

She sprung forward, bursting through the curtains. Four set of eyes turned on her.

”Morgana.” Merlin lounged back on an armchair, legs crossed, cradling a clay
goblet. He gave her a smile that might have been called pleasant, had Morgana
not found his mere countenance overwhelmingly unpleasant. ”We were thinking of sending a search party, had you not showed up soon.”

She thrust her chin forward. ”That won’t be necessary.” She turned her gaze
on Uther. ”And neither will waging wars be.” Bile rose up her throat, yet she
forced herself to push the words out. ”I’ll go.”

Marcellus’ face warped, pained. ”Morgana, you don’t-”

Uther clapped, the sound echoing akin the boom of thunder, cutting off the
man. Morgana’s shoulders tensed as she forced herself not to flinch. He looked
far too pleased, far too glad. Ruining the life of yet another Le Fay.

”Good. Then it is settled. We leave in the morning. We shall come escort
you to the dock.” He was already halfway through the atrium as he called over
his shoulder, large steps carrying him quickly over the small room.

Merlin, however, halted in the archway, holding back the heavy curtains.
Fixing her with twin pools of tar. His smile just a malicious caricature of one. ”Goodnight, Morgana.”

She waited for the curtains to fall before she let the tears start anew.