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It was still dark when the two women set out, their cloaks – lush red and not at all subtle, even in the pre-dawn light – billowing out behind them as their horses trotted past the guards. At a discreet distance behind them, Merlin followed, accompanied – more for companionship than by necessity – by Gwaine and Lancelot. Merlin was silent, his entire being focused on what was to come, of what he would be required to do. Gwen held her tongue as well, but she kept pace with Morgana’s mare, their fingers briefly entwined as they shared their worry, hope and fear. Then Gwen returned her grip to the reins and Morgana let herself sink into her thoughts. Lancelot and Gwaine took up the rear, their hands on the hilts of their swords.
By the time they reached the place small bluff overlooking the lake, Morgana was half-certain she was being led not to her rebirth, but to her death. It was terrifying, but she could see no other way, and if she thought her death would at all atone for her past crimes, she welcomed it. Gladly.
‘That will not be necessary, my Lady.’
Merlin’s voice chimed clearly in her head and it was an effort not to turn and look at him. It was still too new, and she wasn’t sure how she felt knowing that he could read her thoughts so clearly.
‘I cannot read your mind, Morgana. Now you’re just being silly. But I can see them written across your face as clearly as though it were done in ink.’
She did not turn to look at him, but she bowed her head just a bit more. She had refused to learn to project her mind-voice onto anyone else. Her powers had always frightened her, but it was her ability to abuse them that she found terrifying, and she did not want to tempt the fates again. Not when she was so close to finally redeeming herself, to shedding the sins she had wrought upon her own soul.
The knights dismounted first, securing their horses while Merlin concentrated on laying out protective wards around the area. As peaceful as Albion was becoming, there was always the risk of running into bandits, and Merlin did not want to be caught unawares during the ceremony. Only when he was through did he gather his robes around him and slide to the ground.
“My Lady,” said Sir Lancelot, offering his queen a hand down.
Guinevere took it, her eyes fond, her smile soft and trusting. And if her hand lingered a few moments longer than necessary, no one spoke of it. Gwaine made a sound of discontent and moved to Morgana’s side. There was no affection in the look he gave her; his normally cheerful demeanor was darker, almost forbidding and the laughter that usually lit up his eyes had been replaced by cold calculation. It made Morgana shiver to see it, but she knew it was well deserved. And when she took his hand, she could feel the fine restraint that kept him from crushing her delicate fingers within the fold of his own.
“That will be all.” Merlin spared a smile of thanks to Lancelot and Gwaine before dismissing them. They went only as far as the trees; they would not leave until the first part of the ceremony was complete. “Morgana, this is the last time I will be able to make this offer. If you wish to—”
“No, Merlin. That—I cannot. You know this.”
Merlin’s eyes, tired and worn from his years as King Arthur’s Chief Advisor and Court Magician, crinkled at the corners, the blue of them nearly lost, but it was genuine and warm. She could see his regret and answered it with a confidence she hadn’t felt until just then. She took both his hands within her own and willed him to understand.
“I must, Merlin. If not for the King and the Queen, if not for Camelot and all of Albion, then for me. I do not wish to become that person again, to be the reason behind the fear and the pain.”
“I understand,” he replied.
His voice was rough and husky, broken with all that Morgana knew he must be feeling. She wondered how it was he kept himself together when he seemed to feel every emotion magnified, when he wore his heart so plainly it could be plucked up and crushed with only a thought. She wanted to pull him into her arms and embrace him fully, as they friends they once were. But now was not the time, not yet.
“My Queen, My Lady, if you will disrobe down to the ceremonial gowns, we can begin. Arthur anxiously awaits our return.”
Guinevere unhooked her cloak, batting away Morgana’s hands when they attempted to aid her, but she was laughing and her dark eyes were bright. Instead, Morgana watched as her Queen’s fingers deftly undid the laces of her dress, leaving it in a pool at her feet. When she stepped out of the puddle of fabric, she slipped out of her shoes as well, and all too soon, she was standing before Morgana in a simple shift that fell to her ankles, her bare toes digging into the sand.
“It will be like old times,” Gwen assured her, as she reached for Morgana’s gown.
It took them longer to undo the ties, to slip the buttons through the holes that lined the sides and to peel away the layers. Morgana shivered as the cool early-morning air brushed over her body, and she remembered other mornings, when she had lain in bed, Gwen tucked beside her with skin warm and soft beneath Morgana’s hands. But those were days long since passed, when Morgana had been little more than a girl of sixteen and Uther had been too new in his guardianship of her to question their closeness.
“I cannot believe that my clothes take longer to remove than the Queen’s!” Morgana said with a huff.
“I’m simply here as your friend; your dress is part of the ceremony. Once this is over, the dress will be burned.”
Morgana nodded, only somewhat sad for the fine garment. Then Gwen was done and the last layer was falling away, leaving Morgana in a gown that reached only to her knees, her feet equally as naked. She shivered a little and Gwen’s hands rubbed over her arms, her fingers leaving an invisible, scalding trail behind them.
Merlin watched them the whole time, his gaze sharp and keen but not judging. Morgana wondered once more if it was true that, on the nights when Guinevere shared Lancelot’s bed, Merlin shared Arthur’s. She hoped so, because she knew for certain that if was he was not, then he was alone, and Merlin deserved more than that. He caught her eye suddenly, and his eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. Morgana looked away first.
“My Queen—”
“Please, Merlin, I am still your friend. Must you always be so formal?”
And his look was so calm, so measured that Morgana knew in an instant what he would not say aloud. ‘Yes, because I must remind myself of why it is you by Arthur’s side and not myself.’ When Merlin’s gaze landed on her, sharp, digging and almost painful, Morgana did not meet it. There were no secrets between them, not now, but she would not betray what she knew even with a glance. This secret was probably all that Merlin had left.
“The ceremony, at the very least, demands it.” He faced them both and raised his arms, his eyes already beginning to burn with the magic of Albion. “My Queen, Lady Morgana, please step into the lake.”
They did so, muffling their gasps as they stepped into the cold water, Merlin right beside them. They walked out until the water hit their waists, then stopped and waited for him to continue. This part had been rehearsed to a certain degree, so both Morgana and Gwen knew what they needed to do.
Morgana held out her hand and Merlin pulled a cup from the pack at his back, the burnished silver glinting in the pale sunlight. Then he produced a small pouch, tucking it away in the front of his Court Magician robe so that it would not get wet. The last thing he removed was a dagger, the hilt beautifully decorated with gemstones, and Morgana recognized it instantly as the one she had nearly killed Uther with. It made her gut twist and her heart clench to see it now, and another wave of guilt swept through her.
Merlin handed the goblet to Gwen, who clutched it before her. With his free hand, he took out the pouch and emptied its contents into the goblet. The soil from all the former separate kingdoms of Albion settled after a moment, and Morgana was amazed at how simplistic it looked, how innocuous something like could seem, when in fact it held more power than all the magic users in the land combined.
He took Morgana’s hand within his own and brought the dagger to the point where her first finger bent. When the tip pierced the skin, she was amazed that there was no sting, and she watch in fascination as he dragged the blade to the opposite corner of her palm, managing to bisect both her head and heart lines, though not her life.
“Mé ymbbindan thee. Thine galdorcwide licganes ǽrost tó Camelot ǽgðer Albion. Mé lǽfan tó thee the ǽhtgeweald of árǽdan swefnap. Lǽtan them lǽdan thee æt a futur léohtlic ǽgðer clǽne.”
He released her hand, but she held it steady, watching as her blood flowed into the goblet, mixing with the dirt. Then another faint trickle joined, and she looked up, surprised to see that Merlin was adding his own to the mixture. She supposed it made sense that his blood, his magic, would anchor hers, but still it surprised her that he shed it so easily.
Merlin smiled at her. “I am already forever tied to this land. I was conceived not of my mother and father, but of the magic of the Old Religion. I have never regretted it.”
She nodded, then returned her gaze to her hand, and to where Gwen was carefully tying a simple bandage around the wound. She had not seen the goblet pass between their hands, but she wasn’t surprised. Everything around her was buzzing, and she could feel the way her own magic was burning through her, seeking out but finding no escape. The sound of it, sharp and piercing, rang within her mind, unheard by anyone else save Merlin. It left her gasping, her head spinning and her stomach lurching. She was positive she would be sick at any moment, but just as quickly as it all began, everything settled.
Shock coursed through her when she felt the steady thrum of her magic, still within her, still a part of her. She looked up at Merlin, seeking some confirmation that it was not just her imagination.
“It was Arthur who figured out how to reword the spell. Your magic is there and you may use it, but never against Arthur, never against this kingdom. He wanted you to know that he has forgiven you, and that you are trusted, but the promise of having your power tied to his land was too much for him to forgo the ceremony completely. You are still free to practice, my Lady, but you cannot do harm unless it is to Albion’s enemies.”
She sagged then, slumping into Gwen’s welcoming arms, and she let the first of her tears fall. She wanted to put them away, to force them back so that Merlin would not look so wretched, but she could not. It was as though a dam had been broken inside her. Instead she reached out, caught his hand in her own and said,
‘Thank you for this. It is more than I deserve.’
“My Queen, you may continue with the bath of purification. I will have warm clothes awaiting you.”
Merlin did not wait for a reply, but instead waded back to the shore. When he reached the beach he paused, but he did not turn around. After a moment, he continued on, disappearing into the trees that surrounded them, hopefully finding his own dry clothes.
Gwen’s fingers on her shoulders brought Morgana back to her own state, she could not hold back a shiver when the straps of her shift were pushed down. The air was cold against her naked breasts and she crossed her arms over them. Gwen continued to work steadily, stripping the gown all the way off, then cupping her hands so that she could pour water over Morgana’s head. It trickled down between her breasts, over she back and along her arms.
“This water represents the forgiveness of Albion and her people, of her King and Queen and those who love you most. Let it wash away all of the sins you bear and the guilt that weighs you down. Do not forget the bitter taste of regret, but embrace the freedom that has been granted to you.”
Gwen fell silent after the final words, her fingers sliding over Morgana’s skin, familiar, and yet not. The calluses she had built up from so many years as a servant were there still, a sign of all that Gwen did for her kingdom, and they pressed into Morgana’s flesh, grounding her when she thought she would shatter from the kindness in the touch.
At last they were through and they made their way back to the shoreline, Gwen in the lead with Morgana at her back. There were fresh linens awaiting them, folded carefully onto a quilt to keep them from getting sandy, and the clothes that they were to put on were held down by magically heated stones. They did not waste time or words as they dressed, and the sodden shifts were thrown down on top of Morgana’s original gown.
When they were ready, Gwen whistled. Merlin emerged first, Lancelot and Gwaine close at his heels. The clothes were gathered up, and the girls followed them to the small campfire that had been started in their absence. Morgana watched as the dress and gowns were tossed into the fire, and Merlin raised a hand, whispered until his eyes burned gold once more, and the flames leapt high with a roar, glowing white before dying back down. Nothing of the clothes remained behind.
Gwaine took charge of clearing away the mess and making certain that the fire was fully doused, while Lancelot readied the horses for their return. Gwen was beside him, their heads bent low, but Merlin was gone. When Morgana found him, it was at the water’s edge, and he wore a far away expression.
“The lake takes as much as it gives,” Morgana said, coming to stand beside him.
The corner of his mouth hooked up, but he didn’t look away from the glassy surface. “That it does. And somewhere deep in the center, it holds a piece of my heart. Just a small piece, but I can feel it missing, can feeling it calling out to me.”
Morgana did not ask, ‘Who was she, or ‘do you want it back, or would you rather join it,’ because she knew what his answer would be. ‘Just a girl I once knew and ‘no.’ He had Arthur; that was all he would ever admit to needing or wanting.
The trip back was not so silent. Merlin’s melancholia was noticed by Gwaine, who placed himself at Merlin’s side like a burr, his bawdy jokes floating back as he worked fiendishly to make Merlin smile. Morgana stayed to the right, with Gwen beside her and Lancelot on the left. And as they rode on, she thought of the future she would only be able to see her dreams, of the warmth of Gwen’s hand in her own, of the heat of Lancelot’s gaze upon Gwen. Eventually, when they reached the castle, Gwen would leave her, but Morgana found that that thought was no longer as terrifying as it had once been. And, she reminded herself, Leon was waiting for her as well, and if that was not the greatest symbol of how she had been both forgiven and accepted, she did not know what was.
**Loose translation: I bind you. Your magic belongs now to Camelot and Albion. I leave you the free-will power of prophecy dreams. Let them guide you into a future bright and pure.