Title: I Never Meant to Let You Go At All

Author: brickroad16/inafadinglight

Characters/Pairing: Merlin/Morgana, Hunith

Rating: PG

Summary: After Arthur drives Morgana from the throne, Camelot returns to peace, but Merlin finds that it's not so easy to deal with her absence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin or its characters.

A/N: This is based heavily on spoilers from the recent Merlin panel at San Diego Comic Con. It obviously won't be canon, because I have much more of an M/M agenda than the writers do. But beware that it is based on spoilers, so don't read if you don't want to know anything about the upcoming season.

If you like Merlin/Morgana, check out my other stories! Especially my current fic, This Night is Flawless. :)

www . fanfiction s / 8108109/1/This_Night_is_Flawless

She took a plane to somewhere out in space
To start a life and maybe change the world
See, I never meant for you to have to crawl
No, I never meant to let you go at all
- "Flowers for a Ghost," Thriving Ivory

It hits him suddenly, a tightening in his chest, like he's running out of air. He stops in the middle of the corridor, stops so suddenly that Elyan bumps into him from behind, nearly knocking him over.

"Watch it, Merlin," he advises with a playful grin and moves past him on his way, along with the rest of the knights.

They haven't felt a thing.

Merlin, still unable to shake the sensation, clutches at his chest and crosses to an alcove. Bracing his hands on the cool stone, he struggles for breath. He's arrested by a lovely view of the castle grounds in autumn, the trees gleaming in crimson and gold, the rolling hills coated in amber and ocher, but the sight is soon obliterated by black spots. He's choking, suffocating. His heart is pounding out of control. He's dying.

And, just as quickly as it arrived, the sensation disappears. He gasps for air, gulps a deep lungful and feels his heartbeat calm as the air seeps into his bloodstream again.

"What was that?" he gasps out weakly, about to collapse.

His head is spinning, his thoughts swimming, and his throat is scratchy and too dry to swallow properly. Whatever it was is gone. He can breathe again, but as he looks around him, sees people strolling down the corridor and going about their daily lives, he knows he's missing something. How can their lives go on without a hitch when his has been so disrupted? There's been a disturbance in the world, an imbalance in magic, and no one but he has felt it.

But what was it? And what can he do about it?

He has dreams, such dreams.

They come every night, haunting him until he's shaking and shuddering and waking with a jolt to the freezing night, for his fire always mysteriously goes out. When he wakes in the darkness, a sheen of sweat coating his brow and his nightshirt clinging to his skin despite the coldness biting the air, he sets the fire ablaze again with just a whispered word that sets his eyes alight. The room warms up quickly.

But he's still left cold inside, so cold, images clinging to his mind even as he struggles to push them away. There's blood, and pain, unbearable amounts of pain. The torturous arch of her back as she twists away. The taut muscles in her neck as she screams in anguish. The limpness in her frail limbs as she collapses from exhaustion, her arms held aloft only by the manacles shackled to her wrist.

With a low groan, he slides out of bed and crosses to the window. Camelot at night has always enchanted him, but tonight the view gives him no pleasure.

Why does she haunt him so? After all this time, why can she not leave him alone, leave him in peace to forget her and move on with his life? Perhaps his heart would never recover, but at least he could have a semblance of normalcy, play at being whole when he was truly broken inside. If only she would leave him be.

But her scream ravages his mind, steals his sanity. He presses his knuckles to his forehead to try to force her out of his head. But there's no scrubbing her imprint from his soul. It will forever be there, blotting out every hope of a smile or a quiet, happy moment, and these dreams will forever remind him of his catastrophic failure.

"Still no news of Morgana?" Arthur asks his knights.

They're gathered at the round table, the king and the queen and the knights. And Merlin. He's present without really being there. His mind's been wandering for the entirety of the council meeting, but it suddenly snaps to attention at the mention of her name.

They haven't heard from her in nearly a year. It's spring now, the trees blossoming and the flowers blooming. It's stunning, and in the mornings as he watches the knights train in the field, he numbly recalls how much he used to love seeing the world bloom into life, the colors becoming brighter, everything becoming fuller, as if filling up with a thousand promises of good things to come.

It feels empty now, without her.

Everyone at court views it as a blessing, not having seen her in so long. They've always been threatened by her presence, haven't been able to see to the pain beneath her cold, cruel façade, have been blind to the fact that the things they've done, the way they've treated her, have been built up the foundations of her hatred.

What he would give to take it all back, to go back to the beginning and do it all differently. Perhaps it's not all his fault, but he certainly bears a hefty portion of it. At least he's aware of that.

"No, sire," replies Leon with a firm shake of his head. "Nothing. It's as if she's disappeared entirely. There's no trace of her."

Arthur leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, a thoughtful expression on his face. Merlin watches him closely, holding his breath, knowing somehow that something important hangs in the balance here.

Finally, Arthur gives one swift nod. "Then we should treat her as such. There's no use in worrying about her until she decides to show herself again."

Then, with a sigh, he rises, dismisses the council, and follows them out. Merlin is left alone in the hall, empty and aching and with no one to turn to. He leans his head back against the wall, the stone cooling his feverish feelings, and suddenly, very clearly, he understands.

After being bent on revenge for so long, being consumed by it, there is only one thing that would keep her from fulfilling her quest – if someone stopped her from fulfilling it. He curses himself for not having seen it before, turning to the wall and hitting it in frustration. This is what the dreams have been about. They've been trying to warn him. Why didn't he do something when they first came to him? Why didn't he listen?

"You'll be careful, won't you, Merlin?" asks Arthur, though it comes out as more of a command.

Merlin looks down from atop his horse and nods to his king. "Of course." He's grateful that Arthur is letting him go, even if he doesn't know the true reason behind his departure.

"I hope your mother gets better."

"Thank you, sire. I'm sure she's very appreciative that you've given me up for a few days, although I'm not sure how you'll get along without me."

Arthur smiles. "Don't worry, Merlin. You'll make up all your chores when you get back."

"Of course I will," he replies, smiling in spite of the situation.

Arthur claps the mare on the neck and sends him off into the bright morning sunlight. There's a sadness to leaving Camelot he hadn't expected, but when he considers it, he realizes he hasn't really been away from the king in a long time. Despite Arthur's flaws, he wouldn't hesitate to call him the closest friend he's ever had. Which makes deceiving him and going after his estranged, missing half-sister all the worse.

Still, he knows his conscience will never rest easy if he doesn't at least look for her.

Merlin enters and shakes the rainwater from his cloak. The tavern is dim and musty, but its tough, intimidating patrons pay him no attention. He throws back his hood, throws a quick glance around the room, and strides toward a table tucked away in the corner, near the fire. He sits down, feeling the heat from the blaze start to warm his bones, and the man across from him looks up.

"I was told you'd have information for me," he says quietly.

The man frowns, creasing his already lined face. "Do you have what I asked for?"

Merlin reaches into his cloak to drag out a small pouch of gold and set it on the table between them. It's not much, but it's what he has to offer. The man nods, takes it, and tucks it away.

He takes a long drag of ale before saying, "Why are you after this girl?"

"That doesn't concern you."

He shrugs. "Well, I can tell you that it won't be easy to get to her. She's being held in the White Mountains."

"By whom? Who's taken her? Why?"

"I don't know his name, but he works for a man named Elgard."

"What does he want?" Merlin demands in a growl.

The spy leader's eyes widen, and he realizes with a sigh that his hands are clenched in fists. Letting out a breath, he forces himself to relax.

"Elgard is depraved," he says, "mad. He has a hatred for all things magical, but it's my belief that he's taken her for a more personal reason, as well, something he blames her for. But that's not the worst of it."

Merlin clenches his jaw as he waits for him to go on.

He explains, "From what my men have reported, I think he's doing experiments, experiments that would allow him to deprive someone of their magical ability."

"And he's using her to test this?"

The man nods. Merlin forces himself to remain in his chair.

"Where exactly in the White Mountains?" he asks in a low rumble.

"My men and I can lead you there."

"Fine, but I won't need your help after."

He can't be certain of what he'll do once he enters that cave, and he doesn't want anyone unnecessary caught in the crossfire.

She's cold.

Unbearably cold.

She's shivering in her skin and in her bones and in her soul.

How has it come to this? The days since she's been captured have been a blur, the memories so torn and patched together that she doesn't know how long she's been here, how long she's been in his power, but she's certain she's never spent this long in pure terror. Each time he comes to her, she never knows if it will be her last day, and she would give anything to have her last sight be something other than this vile beast.

So when he comes and her mind fills with images of dark hair, blue hairs, strong cheekbones, she's surprised, but she doesn't reject it. There had been a time when they had been happy, when she had been dangerously close to opening up her heart to him. She wonders – fuzzily, because her mind is capable of only incomplete thoughts now, just as her heart's been capable of only incomplete feelings for quite some time – she wonders if she would still be in this situation if she had succumbed to that tender affection so long ago.

Her shoulders have gone numb from being chained above her head for so long, and she can feel a blinding sharpness in her left arm, right below the elbow. She's sure the bone sticks out through the skin. The rest of her body aches in a distant way, as if the longer the pain continues, the less she is able to truly feel it.

She ceased to scream long ago.

Her black dress is torn and ragged, covered in dried blood. But it still manages to cover most of her bruises and cuts, some half-healed, others too fresh to really register as painful.

Even with all the bad choices she's made, the hurt she's caused, she doesn't think she deserves this. This is a special hell reserved for only the worst kind of monsters. Then again, isn't that what she's become? A monster, fit only for agony and destruction and sorrow.

This cannot be her destiny. She cannot die here, alone and broken. If she ever escapes from this, she makes a promise, to give up her wretched ways, to discover the true reasons behind her rage.

To find another way.

A loud thud from outside draws her attention. She lifts her head weakly. Men shouting. Then smoke invades the cave, filling her lungs, and she begins coughing. A tall, dark figure rushes through the opening, quickly pursued by another, broader one. The smoke is getting thicker, obscuring the two, but she can hear their grunts and the clang of steel on steel as they fight ferociously.

"You will pay for this, Elgard. I swear it."

That voice, it sounds eerily familiar.

But the eyes . . . they light up gold, throwing her captor against the wall without moving a muscle, and they cannot belong to the man she is thinking of. But there is no more time to think about it, because strong, sturdy arms are around her, lifting her to safety, and her mind drifts away into the black.

He considers taking her to her old abode, the hovel in which she dwelt as an outcast, but he decides that may hold just as many bad memories for her as it does for him, so he decides at last on his mother's house. It's farther, but his mother has never been averse to taking in those in need of help, and he has a feeling she'll provide some much-needed comfort when Morgana wakes. He doesn't imagine his is the first face she wants to see.

When he rides up to her house, Morgana cradled in his lap, his mother stays silent. She's not the questioning type. She simply opens the door for him and turns down the covers for him to lay Morgana on the bed. With the greatest of care, they remove her clothing, Merlin averting his gaze as best he can, wash the worst of the evidence away, and redress her in one of Hunith's old cotton shifts. It's soft, which he thinks is good, but how much can it help when it looks as if she'll sleep forever? He also mends her broken arm with a whispered word, and his mother splints it and binds it in soft, fresh bandages.

When his mother leaves the room, he sits down on the edge of the mattress. Even with the bruises and cuts marring her face, she looks more at peace than he's seen her in a long time. He reaches out, gingerly, to brush the hair from her forehead. His fingers tremble as they caress her temple and follow the curve of her cheek. He lets out a shaky breath and turns away abruptly.

He finds his mother in the main room, making tea. He sits down at the table with a weary sigh and lets his head sink into his hands. She sets tea down for both of them and sits across from him.

"Well," she says softly, "this was quite unexpected, but I can't say that I'm not pleased to see you."

With a deep breath, he drops his hands to look at her. "I only wish that it had been under some other circumstances."

Hunith takes a sip of tea. "How did you find her?"

"Looked hard."

"Why?"

He can't quite meet her eyes, so he sips his tea. After a moment, he confesses, "I just . . . felt . . . something was wrong. I couldn't stand by any longer, not without knowing."

"No. I don't suppose you could have."

He looks up sharply, unable to fathom out her meaning.

But she only asks, "What do you mean to do?"

"What can I do? I will stay until she wakes, then I must return to Camelot." He pauses. "Is she . . ." He sighs shakily. "Will she be all right?"

"We will do what we can for her, but not all her wounds are the kind you can see, my dear."

She wakes with a groan. Her throat feels like someone's poured fire down it. When she opens her eyes, a woman with dark hair and the kindest blue eyes she's ever seen is sitting in a chair beside her bed, knitting. She's familiar, but her mind is a muddle, and she's can't quite place the woman.

The more important issue is how she got here and why. Who rescued her?

When the woman looks up and notices she's awake, she crosses to the bed. She pours a glass of water, slides a gentle hand to the back of her neck to help her sit up, and tips some water into her mouth. The water revives her, cools her burning throat.

"Thank you," she whispers as the woman rearranges her pillows to help her sit up a little.

The woman sits down again and takes up her knitting.

Morgana watches her for a few moments before asking, "Why am I here?"

Her eyes flicker up. "Well, there aren't a lot of places for Merlin to take you. Camelot's out of the question."

Merlin. She thought her eyes had been playing tricks on her in the cave, but if it was Merlin who had rescued her, then . . . then that meant . . . She chokes back a sob. She can't think about that now, can't think about how he's lied to her for so long . . . But at least that solves one nagging question.

This is Merlin's mother. This is Hunith. She's always had a soft spot for Hunith, who is compassionate and gracious and never has a harsh word for anyone.

Silence descends, and it's so heavy that it feels like it's pressing in on her chest, suffocating her.

"I'm sure Merlin would like to speak to you," Hunith tells her softly.

She wants to turn away completely, but her body is so sore, so heavy. So she turns her head away and murmurs, "I'd like to go back to sleep now."

She nearly doesn't hear Hunith's soft reply of "Of course, dear," before her dreams retake her.

She refuses to speak to him for weeks. He comes, the same day every week, and yet she will not say a word. From what his mother tells him, she's gaining in strength and, despite the older woman's protestations, has even begun to help around the home with the smaller, easier chores.

He sees this for himself one day in the fall when he trots up on his mare and finds her in the yard, hanging laundry to dry. He pulls the horse to a stop by the fence and dismounts, watching her quietly. Her bruises have faded, but the scars haven't, and she still wears the splint on her left arm. She wears an unadorned brown dress, her hair in a simple plait, but he thinks she would look lovely in whatever she wore.

Tearing his gaze from her, he ties the horse to the fence and walks inside. The squeak of the gate alerts her, and she whips around, a damp dress clutched in her hands. She stares at him, frozen, like a doe who faces the hunter defiantly, knowing she's facing certain death.

When did they become like this? They were friends once. Now there's a gulf as wide as a sea dividing them. When did that happen? How did they let it?

He takes a step forward and, gently, says, "Morgana, don't . . . Please, I'm not here to hurt you."

"I know that," she nods, her voice hesitant. "But I don't know whether to slap you for all that you've done to me . . . or to thank you for saving me."

He lets out a heavy sigh. This isn't how he wants their first true conversation in over a year to develop. Dropping his hands to his sides, he pleads, "We could always start with a clean slate."

"It's much too late for that, don't you think?" she asks sadly.

He shakes his head firmly. "No. It's never too late, Morgana."

After a long moment, during which their gazes never waver, she turns away and drops the dress into a basket under the laundry line. Just before she disappears into the cottage, she stops and, without looking at him, says, "It is for me."

The red and gold leaves shine from the recent rainfall as Merlin looks out the cottage window at Morgana, outside with a sword, beating to death a makeshift straw dummy. When thunder rumbles, he can feel it inside of him, shaking his soul.

"You could try talking to her, you know," comes his mother's voice from behind him.

He doesn't bother turning around, knowing that he'll only be faced with one of those maternal looks that he can't possibly defend against. He rests his hands on the counter and sighs.

He can practically hear his mother frown. Then she says, "You can't build a castle unless you first have the stone."

This time, he does turn to look, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

She smiles at him. "Just try, son."

Taking a deep breath, he makes his way outside, the damp grass soaking his boots and the bottoms of his trousers. Morgana doesn't turn around, simply continues striking angrily at the dummy, grunting with the effort. Calmly, so as not to scare her, he walks around her so she's aware of his presence and crosses his arms as he watches.

When he's sure she won't turn him away or, worse, strike out at him, he prompts, "I don't think you should be doing this."

"Yes, well, how else am I to recover my strength?" she tosses right back at him, without even pausing in her attacks.

He chuckles lightly, because she sounds so much like the girl he used to know, vivacious and challenging and bursting with potential. And he can guess that behavior like this does nothing for the rest of the villagers' peace of mind.

But that is not what he meant. His smile fades.

Softly, he says, "No. Letting your anger overtake you."

Her jaw clenched as she lands a solid blow on the dummy's shoulder, she growls, "What else do I have but anger? There is nothing left to me."

"That's not true. You have friends."

For the first time, she drops the sword and turns to him. "Oh, yes," she replies with a mirthless smile. "Friends who lie to me with each breath. Friends who abandon me." She slams the sword blade into the grass. "True friends, indeed."

He can see her face harden against him. He will never break through those walls, not again. He had come close to it once, a long time ago, and he had thrown the chance away. How can he hope to repair their relationship, to repair the damage that's been done to her heart, when she will not forgive him, forgive anyone? In his best moments, he can still see a future for her, a future in which her destiny lies not in opposition to his but on the same path.

He steps toward her. "You don't know, you'll never know, Morgana, how sorry I am, how much I want to take back the things that we've been through."

"No," she says angrily. "If you were sorry, you would have found another way."

"I tried."

"You didn't try hard enough!"

The accusation hangs between them, interrupted only by the rumble of thunder overhead.

"What do you want me to say, Morgana? Huh?" he finally asks, surprised to find himself shouting back at her. "I messed up! I can't save everybody all the time! But maybe this isn't all my fault. Did you ever think about that? If you hadn't trusted Morgause, then none of this –"

"Don't talk about my sister! Don't you dare talk about her!"

Lightning crackles in the sky, then the rain starts again, heavy this time. The drops splatter on his face, in his eyes, drenching his clothes. But she won't release his gaze.

"Besides," she breathes, the fury tempered in her voice but still shining through her eyes, "who else did I have to trust? All that time I thought I was alone, when you were right there."

What can he say? He could have acted differently, but she could have, as well. They have both made bad choices. They have both carved out their paths. Perhaps now they can both change them.

"I am sorry," he murmurs desperately. "I'm so sorry. You'll never forgive me, I know, but please, just know that."

Her shoulders slump, and suddenly, the woman standing before him looks nothing but exhausted. Exhausted from trying to be strong all on her own.

He reaches a hand out to her, aware that he's barely touched her in all the years they've known each other, but it hardly matters, because she chooses that moment to turn and walk away from him.

The feast is splendid, the food magnificent, yet Merlin stands there, the guests' laughter a numb buzzing in his ears, unable to find pleasure in any of it. He watches Guinevere in the queen's chair, Princess Mithian in the place of honor, both talking and laughing with Arthur and the knights around them, but all he can think of is Morgana. She deserves to be here, too. Maybe not as queen, but as a respected member of the court.

If only she had never found out about her true parentage.

No, that's not right. If only Uther had never lain with her mother. If only she had truly been of Gorlois's line. It all leads back to Uther, he finds. Because Morgana being Uther's daughter is not the true problem. It's the seeds of hatred he had sown in her heart throughout his reign, when he had chosen all those times to strike against magic instead of treating its users with tolerance and mercy, instead of showing his daughter that he would accept her for who she was, along with her powers.

"What's the matter, Merlin?" comes a voice beside him. "You look as if Arthur just told you you'll be mucking out the stables for the rest of your life. Are you all right?"

He looks up to find Regan, Gwen's new handmaiden, standing beside him. She's pretty, he supposes, in her way, if you prefer blonde hair and wide blue eyes. And she's smiling at him, as if the only thing in the world he has to worry about is keeping Arthur's wine goblet full. He stares at her in disbelief. How little she knows of life.

"You can talk to me, Merlin. You know that," she urges kindly. "Even if it's about Arthur. I swear I won't tell."

He imagines that, if they had met before, he would admire her openness, her willingness to trust people.

Leaning back against the wall, he shakes his head. "It's not that. I'm only . . . a little tired tonight, that's all."

"Oh," she sighs. "Well, in that case, I can take care of filling the king's cup, if you'd like. They're so busy talking, it won't be extra work at all."

It should make him feel like he has a friend, someone to share things with, but all it does is make him intolerably lonely. He cannot go on like this, living like a ghost, seeing little and feeling less. There must be a purpose to all this, to his life. But what purpose can there be when he stands here, lost amid a sea of people he used to understand, and she is still out there, just as confused as she's always been?

Somehow, he must find a way to bring her home.

She still doesn't speak very much, or even lift her eyes to his, but she lets him sit at the supper table across from her, and he thinks that's progress. His mother sits between them, enduring their silence, eyeing them both patiently.

He swallows a mouthful of stew and asks, "How is your arm?"

He wants to say so much more, but it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only thing that won't ignite her rage and dredge up all their past mistakes.

Morgana's gaze flickers up. "Better." She glances at Hunith, then back to him. "Thank you."

Just when he thinks they're moving in the right direction, she rises from the table, her stew only half-eaten, and begins to clean the bowl.

"Oh, I'll take care of that, Morgana, dear," says Hunith. "Don't worry."

Without responding or even turning, Morgana sets the bowl down and walks out the front door, grabbing her cloak on the way. Merlin's heart thumps as he watches her depart. One look at his mother tells him to go after her.

He doesn't bother finding a cloak, even though autumn is beginning to freeze into winter and the air nips at his face – his nose, his ears – as soon as he steps through the door. He stops and looks around, spots a flash of red just over the crest of the hill. The grass crunches beneath his boots, but she doesn't look up as he advances toward her.

He lets out a sigh as he sits down beside her. She's quiet, taking in the forest draped in frost, the nearby cottages with plumes of smoke rising from their chimneys.

"Morgana," he says softly.

He wants to reach out to her, touch her and let her know that he's here and will be from now on, but something in her eyes warns him away. Her skin is porcelain, but her expression, far from cold, is sorrowful.

"Your mother has been very kind to me," she says, "but I can't stay here forever."

He swallows thickly. He's known this arrangement wasn't forever, wasn't perfect, but he wanted to figure out how to proceed before she could get ideas in her head and go running away, leaving him and whatever they share behind with nary a thought. Because that's what she'll do. She's much too headstrong to sit here and let someone else dictate her life. No, she'll either return to trying to retake the throne or she'll disappear entirely, ride far away and forge an entirely new life for herself, try to find a place where she belongs.

The truth is, though, that she belongs here, in Camelot. With him.

"You could," he tells her with a quiet chuckle. "She likes having a daughter, I think."

She picks at the hem of her cloak. "It's nice to have a mother."

It comes out so softly he nearly doesn't hear. He swipes a hand through his hair, thinking. There's so much he wants to say to her, but much of what he has to say will only drive her away. He brings his knees to his chest, fiddles with the laces of his boots. But after what they've been through, perhaps the truth is the best way to go.

"Then stay," he pleads, his voice cracking. When she doesn't respond right away, he says, "Not forever, maybe, but I promise, there's no one here who doesn't want you here."

Finally, she turns to face him. "But I don't belong here, do I? I don't belong anywhere."

"That's not true," he says with a fierce shake of his head. "Morgana, you know that's not true."

She nods, sniffling. Her voice is choked, broken, when she says, "Yes, it is. I never really belonged anywhere, not like I thought I did."

He removes his scarf and hands it to her. Chuckling lightly, she accepts it and wipes her nose, her teary eyes. He shifts onto his knees to face her.

"We can start over," he promises desperately. "You'll never forgive me, I know, but maybe one day, you'll trust me again and we can find the way together."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "There's always another way. Isn't that what you told me once?"

"And I still believe it." He licks his lips and clenches his fists to keep from reaching up and taking her face in his hands. "Believe it, too, Morgana."

"But I – I don't know how," she stammers, her breath fogging in the chilly air. "I don't know what to do, where to go. All I see before me is a long road, and who knows where it leads?"

He hesitates, then takes her hand in his. "Then let me walk that road by your side."

She doesn't look at him, doesn't say a word, but she doesn't pull away, either, and that, more than anything, gives him hope.

They will survive this, together.