Morgana's stay in Tintal (Patreon)

Before moving on from Tintal, Morgana wanted to visit the Temple. Surprisingly, her wish was not spurned. She was, however, punished for it with Merlin’s company.

They set off on foot in the morning, closely followed by armored, armed guards at a distance Morgana reckoned ‘respectful’ to one’s royal charges. They might as well have been prison sentries, seizing with apprehension each and every move Morgana made. She was loathsomely, uncomfortably powerless with the twin, silver bracelets clasped around her wrists.

Morgana knew it was perfectly ordinary for nobility to have such escorts, but it still struck her as odd and foreign to be walking down the street with the steady, heavy patter of decisive boots and harsh clang of plates always at their back. Growing up in Avalon meant that as soon as she and Junia were considered old enough to take care of themselves, their only chaperone was the echo of two concerned dads fondly shouting out warnings as they rushed out the garden. The town and the beach and even the wilderness of the island was safe for them to tread and explore.

More disconcerting than the guards’ foreboding presence was Merlin’s attempts at cordial conversation. He inquired after the quality of her sleep, her liking of the food and the last time she’d visited Tintal and the Temple. Morgana alternated between giving perfunctory answers, as to not show how he affected her, and giving no answer at all. Mostly she just took in her surroundings, surveying the woods-like garden that cradled Tintal castle at its heart. Then, once down the hill and out the gates, she trained her gaze on the terracotta roof of the Temple ahead.

There was a welcome pause in the conversation, which Morgana hoped would extend until they reached their destination and she might finally extricate herself from the sorcerer’s unpleasant presence; her hopes were quickly dashed.

“I still consider it such a shame you turned down my offer to become my apprentice,” Merlin said, voice smooth like calm water washing over pebbles. Attempting to soften their edges, polish their surface – trying to lull Morgana into a false sense of comfort, as if he were someone she could have trusted. It was all a sham.

She scoffed in reply. “Would you have really taken me as your apprentice? Surely you couldn’t think I’d accept, after everything you did to my family.”

“The war is over,” he said.

Was it? The Kingdom sure liked to act like it was, but for Morgana it was still raging hot-red through her veins.

“If I were your apprentice,” she said, “I would have staged a tragic little accident.” Not before learning everything she could, of course; she liked to think she wasn’t quite that foolishly rash.

Merlin seemed far more amused than threatened or irked by her truculent confidence. “Oh? I assume the accident would entail poison.”

Morgana didn’t reply just in case she might actually see that plan through. She’d learnt more about poisons than her tutors were comfortable with. She’d read about concoctions whose proof of use was hard to discover, though they were just as hard to purchase – at least through what most would consider just means.

Once it was clear Morgana would not fill the silence, Merlin went on speaking like they were having a friendly conversation. “You think it foolish that I’d ask you to become my apprentice, given your evident…resentment.” Resentment was an understatement. “But I thought that we may come to understand each other. I was offering you an opportunity the likes you couldn’t elsewhere encounter. After all, Morgana,” his lips curled in a long smile, “you show such potential. A pity you decided to let your magic run wild.”

She thrust her chin forward. “It makes me stronger.”

“It makes you unpredictable,” he countered, intent to undercut her smugness. “And that’s not always a good thing.”

She didn’t care. Merlin was simply bitter that she’d not once, but twice taken him by surprise; that the only way to subdue her was by using the one thing that would completely stem her powers. She’d relished throwing him into the wall like a ragdoll, when he made his so-called ‘generous offer’ of apprenticeship, and witnessing the horror in his eyes, followed by that glimmer of embarrassed rage. She’d savored, too, that confusion that warped his expression as the waters rose and roiled around them with furious intent, ready to swallow the ship.

“Instead, you preferred to become an apprentice of the Lady of the Lake. I reckon it fits with your family tradition,” he said, “and it’s quite the virtuous undertaking, but it severely underuses your talents.”

A waspish response promptly materialized on her tongue, but she bit it back and let the patter of her sandals on the cobblestone be her only answer. It wasn’t as if all she ever did on Avalon was fulfill her duties and lessons as apprentice of the Temple; she’d studied magic and potions far beyond what her tutor, Claudia, expected of her. Hours upon hours of research and practice taught her not only the craft, but how to be her own, second tutor.

With a dizzying spike of panic, Morgana wondered whatever her marriage would mean for her magical studies. Surely the Lothian court wouldn’t dare deny a sorcerer her craft; if anything, the bastards must be delighted to receive one into their royal family and bestow the power of the Le Fay – the ones they destroyed – onto them.

Bile shot up her throat, bitter and acid. Her meager breakfast lodged into a lump ready to be upchucked on the side of the road. She pushed it back, along with the dreadful thoughts of what that bestowing of power would entail for her.

“Would it have been enough for you, Morgana?” Merlin asked, intensely earnest. As if he truly sought a genuine answer and wasn’t merely looking to provoke her. “Would life as a Priest on Avalon been enough for you?”

“Yes,” she primly replied, but it was a lie. She’d known for years that it wouldn’t have been enough. She’d always have a hollow within her, dug out by all who had ever wronged her family. No matter what she did, she could never quite fill it up, just shallowly cover it. Lay a canvas over it, disguise it as steady ground – but it was a trap, one step over enough to send you spiraling downwards. She was happy on Avalon, as happy as she could be – but a part of her would always be writhing and itching for more.

Now that she’d lost that life on Avalon, that part of her was slowly gnawing at the whole.

Merlin said nothing more until their arrival at the Temple, letting Morgan stew in her thoughts.

It took all of her self-control not to spring into a dash upon glimpsing the wrought gates of the Temple. Each leisured step they took was agony, piercing and impatient as it stabbed at her chest. There would be no salvation awaiting, but there was the promise of respite and a priest she was very keen to see.

The Temple was as she remembered, and as she had rendered it on canvas in oil to gaze upon whenever she grew melancholy. A lush garden thrived within the walls, as bountiful as it was beautiful. They wound up through the open gates, down the cobblestone path flanked by lemon trees, roses and red valerian; further out extended neatly-tended squares of thyme and mint and rosemary, and stone benches shaded under the canopy of fig and pomegranate trees. She’s lounged on those benches on stifling hot summer days, seeking comfort in the shadow and briny breeze blowing from the sea, talking for hours with her mother, or Nana, or Junia.

Merlin didn’t stop by any of the benches to converse though, which was a relief. He guided them directly to the main building that stood at the heart of the garden, where the offices, study rooms, lounges and library could be found. There were other structures raised on the sprawling Temple grounds, visible through the greenery: the adepts’ quarters, the clinic and infirmary, the boarding house that welcomed anyone in need of help and shelter. They were all quite similar in appearance: pristine white and square, topped with terracotta red roofs. Carved pillars of stone supported their marble-floored terraces, and honeysuckles had been coaxed along the walls to frame doors and windows.

The double doors of the main building were thrown wide open, beckoning all wanderers inside. Merlin stepped aside and with one gallant sweep of his arm, allowed Morgana to pass through first. She did so, holding her head imperiously high even as her heart beat a wild rhythm of desperation.

The familiarity of the place eased the tightly-coiled tension of her muscles, if only a little. The blue-and-green tiles under her feet, the mosaic on the walls depicting praying priests and flowing rivers, the faint smell of honeysuckle and susurrus of voices permeating the air were all familiar and soothed her senses.

Then she reached out to feel the magic, and the illusion of comfort broke into a million shards.

She should have been able to feel it in full, in a place of worship such as this. Years and years of priests and devotees praying and drawing upon the Lady’s power would imbue the place with a sliver of her magic, would leave its imprint on everything. She strained with all her might, yet she could only glimpse but not grasp that magic, looking out the window at the sea: watching with longing the glittering of the water yet unable to dip in. Her manacles cruelly cut her off from all of it and made the power simmering around her muted, subdued, like the washed-out colors of an old painting. She tried to take comfort in whatever she could find.

Fortunately, the guards were made to wait just outside the building; their boots on the tiles would have only further trampled on her tattered nerves and disturbed the sweet calm of the Temple edifice. She walked side by side with Merlin, greeting the people who either bustled by, oblivious to their identity, or stopped in their tracks, eyes wide with recognition. Their gazes landed reverentially or warily on the Royal Sorcerer, but all lingered warmly on Morgana.

They made their way towards the core of the building, whose architectural particularity set it aside from the others in the compound and rendered it more similar to the houses Morgana grew accustomed to in Avalon: the chamber at its middle had no roof, opening up to the skies. And there, under the square awning of the building, stretched a pool of clear, still water, rendered diamantine by sunlight.

The atrium was buzzing: people were passing through, pouring from the corridors around the cloister; walking leisurely or standing along the pool, hands clasped against their priestly robes of Avalonian cut; sitting on the benches by the wall in conversation, lecture or contemplation.

Their arrival was welcomed with a chorus of pleasant surprise and warm greetings. Morgana had no doubt that soon, the entirety of the Temple would know of their presence.

They swarmed around them, their enthusiasm and curiosity more palpable than the magic imbuing the Temple. Merlin responded to their greetings as affably as he did to the Ducal family, putting on that gilded veneer that hid all the rot and blood underneath. She was in no disposition to smile, yet she found within herself the strength to act with the geniality she was due to show the Temple and its people. Her effort, though valiant, was none too successful if she was to judge based on the expressions – ranging from confused to apprehensive to outright concerned – angled her way. They gave her space, keeping a respectful distance away from her and their questions short.

She didn’t need to do much talking, anyway; Merlin was glad to hold court himself, saying how they were merely passing through Tintal in their journey and had to pay a visit to the Temple. He refrained from mentioning either motive or destination of their travels, and people tacitly understood it to be a topic not to prod. Morgana preferred it that way. She was in no mood to contend with whatever questions might stem from the news.

She was far more preoccupied searching for a familiar face in the growing crowd. The figure found her first.

Nana didn’t need to jostle or shout her way through the throng. People promptly fell to the side, clearing a passage for her straight to Morgana. This time, her smile came easily.

“My dear girl, welcome back.”

She opened her arms, and Morgana melted into the embrace.

The tears she’d been fighting were unleashed. She clung onto the woman as if she were a lifeline and could give no coherent answer to her greeting. When Nana pulled back, one look at Morgana’s face was enough to give her pause. Without a word, she veered her away from the crowd before anyone could spy her glistening cheeks. Morgana firmly kept her face cast down, hoping her hair may conceal her face, and followed her.

The priest took them out the building opposite from where Morgana came, into the gravel yard that overlooked the sea. She kept her hand gently clasped around Morgana’s arm, and guided her through the garden to a secluded, shaded spot under the fig trees, where the shrubbery may protect them from prying eyes.

Morgana sat down on the bench – the stone cool even through her gown – and sniffled.

“My dear girl,” the woman crooned, squeezing her fingers with affectionate pressure. “What brings you here? What happened?” Her eyes, which had been so bright upon setting sight on her, were now soberly dimmed.

Morgana took a moment to compose herself. She swallowed her tears, and wiped at her face till all that was left was anger, burning as hot as her skin.

“I am betrothed,” she bitterly said, drawing out the words to avoid dissolving into tears again, “to Duke Lot Leudonus. Against my will, might I add.”

“That’s impossible,” Nana breathed out, appalled.

“I wish it were so.”

“How?”

Morgana’s nose scrunched up in disgust. “Because Uther loathes me.”

Nana cursed under her breath, releasing a string of expletives towards the King that Morgana only half caught. She all but spit at the end, feigning the gesture yet not deigning to mar Temple ground.

“Goddess bless you, Morgana. I know there’s nothing I can say to make this better, but please, promise me you’ll stay strong. The Goddess – the Temple – its priests, we will always be here for you, dearest girl.”

There was no other choice for her. Morgana would not let Uther squash her under his boot as he did the Kingdom; he’d stripped her of her power and liberty, but just like her mother, she would defy him any chance she got.

The woman spoke again, more to herself than Morgana: “It’s like Igraine’s marriage all over again.” Her faraway gaze, cast over the shadowy, leafy mass of shrubbery, had a grim look that suggested far more horrid visages unfurling before it.

Nana sobered up with a sigh, turning back to her. “Would you like to go pray?”

Morgana held up her hands. “I can’t. These are not mere accessory.”

Nana inspected the twin bands of metal and shook her head. “Monsters.”

Face set with determination, she got up. “I’ll get that Royal Sorcerer,” she said the title as if it were an insult, “and get him to remove those shackles immediately. Not even he can deny you the right to pray, not if he cares about the Temple as much as he claims. Wait here.”

She marched off. Morgana expected to see the Royal Sorcerer brought back dragged by his ear like a naughty child.

Nana did not, in fact, drag him by the ear, but her demeanor was as cool as that of a disappointed parent.

Morgana shot to her feet as they approached.

“I assure you, my lady,” Merlin was telling Nana, wearing that same indulgent smile, “that we saw it necessary for everyone’s safety, including Morgana’s own.”

She balled her fists but said nothing.

“She is perfectly safe within Temple walls,” Nana countered, and gestured towards Morgana. “Now if you will, Lord Wyllt.”

He met Morgana’s eye. His was as dark and unfathomable as dangerous, murky waters. “Gladly.”

There was a muttered spell – the password – followed by intense tingling in her wrists. Then the dam broke, and magic came pouring down over her. Flooding her being. She could feel it yet again, all at once and rendered keen after their absence. It was almost too bright, too loud, too much – but she drank it all in, reveled in it, an excess on the senses that she did not mind, no matter how overwhelming.

Nana looped an arm around her, putting herself between Morgana and Merlin. “Good. Now let’s go.”

Morgana suspected that the manacles would be clasped right back on her wrists as soon as she was away from the Temple, but all that mattered then was that she was free, and she could feel everything again. She was stretching her senses, her magic, like sore limbs that had been couped up too much in a small, cramped carriage.

They made their way down the stone steps onto the beach. It was more pebbles and stones and gravel than sand, which did not inspire a desire in one to remove their shoes. Morgana did, however, once they reached the Temple proper.

It was an elevated stone platform that much like a regular, wooden pontoon, stretched out into the sea, as wide and long as a feast hall in a castle might be.

She relished the sensation of the tiles, warmed by the sun, under her bare feet, and idly followed the swirling of the mosaic with her eyes as she walked. On both sides of the Temple, evenly spaced out, stood marble basins. Each were as intricately adorned as the floor tiles, with patterns in blue and green meant to reproduce the fluid, graceful effect of rippling waves. These would be filled with river or lake water as to allow one to sluice it over their face without fear of salt stinging their eyes, which was not very conductive to attaining clarity of mind.

There was no one else at the Temple but them. Nana stopped before one of the basins, but Morgana continued ahead. She walked all the way to the edge of the platform, where wooden stairs descended into the sea. Mosaic steps would have been more fanciful, but sleek, wet floors of such nature did not mix well with keeping one’s footing.

Morgana climbed down. Each step creaked as water lapped at her feet, dampening her gown. She got halfway when she stopped to take it all in – the tranquil, glimmering sea seemingly extending endlessly, cradling Avalon somewhere in its watery embrace, farther than she could see.

Then she dived.

The water closed over her head, and her ears rang.

She felt electrified. The water was refreshingly cool against her heated skin which teemed, just beneath the surface, with the magic she’d been forced to hold within. She surrendered herself over to the waves, floating on her back. Slowly moving her arms around her in wide arcs, willing the water to follow her beckoning.

Morgana prayed to the Goddess, speaking in whispers easily lost in the crashing waves. It soothed her pain, like the healing balm infused with magic the priests make to slather on wounds, that smelled faintly of the sea and tingled on the skin. She couldn’t pray for a dissolution of her engagement, but she could hope to find a moment of peace, a moment of serenity.

Morgana could have laid there, soaking in the saltwater and in the magic of the Goddess for hours. She did get close to one hour. By the time she climbed back up the wooden stairs her skin had pruned and coldness had seeped well into her bones, but she felt calmer, stronger and braver, even as her wedding to Duke Lot loomed on the horizon like storm clouds.

She would face this, too.

And one day, she would be that storm cloud casting its shadow on Camelot.