Disclaimer: I don't own "Merlin" or its character. BBC, NBC, or some other three-letter moniker ending with 'C' does.
A/N: I've written a lot for "Chuck," but this is my first "Merlin" fic. I've recently fallen in love with this show, and I just can't get enough of Merlin/Morgana. So hopefully I've gotten the characters down fairly well. I do appreciate any and all comments.
Slight spoilers for 2.03 and 2.07.
She doesn't understand how she hasn't noticed it until now. How she hasn't noticed all the close calls regarding Arthur's life that nearly succeeded, only to be thwarted by a gangly manservant who's more likely to trip over his own feet than he is to save a life.
But as Morgana sits in her chambers, staring at the smoldering remnants of the fire, she thinks back to all the times she should have seen it, should have noticed what was right in front of her eyes.
It was in the way he had looked at her, when she had told him of her dreams.
It was in the way he had been so willing to help her escape to find help from and solace in the Druids.
And it was written on his face when the Witchfinder had held a knife to her throat.
She can see that moment vividly, as if it were happening right now, and time slows down for her, allowing her to capture every detail – Aredian's tight grasp on her arm, the cool authority in Uther's voice, even the sheen of the blade in the midday sun that streams in through the window.
She remembers how the handle of the knife had burned orange with heat.
And she remembers, through it all, the golden hue of his irises, glowing like embers.
It's easy for her to connect the pieces now, easy for her to see how it's always been Merlin at Arthur's side whenever he's needed saving.
It's brilliant, really. Modest, awkward Merlin playing the part of the bumbling fool to hide the hero inside.
A knock sounds on her door, calling her from her reverie.
"Come in," she says, and doesn't look up when Merlin walks in cautiously, bringing with him a comforting warmth that suffuses the room and envelops her.
He holds up a tiny bottle and waves it in the air, that ridiculous smile on his face. "I brought you some more sleeping draught. Gaius wanted me to make sure you've been sleeping all right."
"Of course," she responds softly. "Thank you, Merlin."
He sets the bottle down on the table, his mouth turning into a frown when he notices her look. He hesitates, shifting from foot to foot, before asking, "Is there anything else you want? Anything I can do for you?"
A small smile appears on Morgana's lips. The way he says it – like he'd be happy to do anything she'd ask, like he's trying to look past her defenses and straight into her heart – sends a shiver of delight up her spine. Servants always ask if there's anything she needs, but Merlin . . . Merlin is the first to ask her what she wants.
If only he knew that her greatest desire is standing not six feet from her.
"No, thank you," she replies, glancing up to smile at him.
Merlin blushes under her gaze, but he takes a step forward and says, "It's late, and cold. At least let me stoke the fire for you."
Before she can protest, he's already kneeling on the hearth and piling more wood onto the coals. She wants to tell him that she doesn't need the fire to keep her warm, not when he's here, but that's not exactly the sort of thing the King's ward can tell the Prince's manservant. So instead, she gets out of her chair to kneel down beside him and help. When Merlin turns his face to hers, she can see the flames reflected in his bright, earnest eyes, turned a burnt amber color by the fire, not the distinct gold she'd seen that afternoon.
Their hands brush as she piles a small log onto the fire, and Morgana feels a tiny jolt go through her before Merlin pulls his away with a low, nervous laugh. But he turns his gaze back to her, and she doesn't need dreams to glimpse the power he could send coursing through her veins with just the touch of his lips.
She can see it plainly now, see the magic surging around him like flames dancing around dry tinder. She reaches out to touch him, to feel it flowing beneath his skin, but she stops, her hand trembling in mid-air.
Merlin rises abruptly. "If there's nothing else, my lady, I'll be going."
"No," she shakes her head. "That's all."
Smiling softly, he reaches down to lift her to her feet. When their fingers meet, a warm tingle runs through her, straight to her heart. She lets out a soft gasp, but Merlin, busy helping her up, pretends not to notice.
"Merlin," she says quietly. He glances up in expectation, meets her questioning eyes with his own intense ones. She clears her throat and asks, "If I have bad dreams tonight . . . I can talk to you?"
"You may always talk to me, my lady," he assures her with a kind smile. "About anything."
Morgana, looking down at their entwined hands, whispers, "Thank you."
When Merlin gently releases her fingers, the heat from his touch quickly dissolves into a chill that emanates uncomfortably through her body.
His request comes back to haunt her, a whisper on the black night air.
Is there anything else you want?
Yes. She wants him to stay. She wants him to keep her warm through the cold dark night. She wants a love that burns slow and steady in its passion, enduring embers in a world preoccupied with blazing flames, flames which will extinguish too quickly and leave only ashes in their wake.
But before she can admit any of this, Merlin takes a step back, and, with a small bow, says, "Goodnight, then, Lady Morgana." When he leaves the room, he takes the heat with him, despite the fire that he's left blazing in the hearth.
The bow, meant to remind her of the discrepancy between their stations, succeeds. But it also infuriates her. Can't he see how that doesn't matter anymore?
She doesn't care if he's merely a servant, as long as she knows she's not alone.
When Morgana wakes in the morning, vestiges of dreams still clinging to her drowsy mind, the first thing she hears is rustling near the fireplace. She lifts her head, only to find Merlin gazing back at her with his goofy grin.
"Where's Gwen?" she asks, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
"In the kitchens getting you breakfast," he answers before turning away to place another log on the already blazing fire. "I thought you might be cold."
Morgana smiles. "How considerate of you."
She watches him silently, keeps her eyes on his lanky, sinewy frame as he works. He's so unassuming, so much more than what he seems. But her dreams were consumed by him last night, and she knows what he's truly capable of.
There is so much she could tell him, so much she wants to tell him, but he appears perfectly content to be nothing more than Arthur's manservant.
She purses her lips, still scrutinizing him. Or, more accurately, to be seen as nothing more than Arthur's manservant.
Finished with tending to the fire, Merlin stands, turns around, and brushes off his trousers. "There," he smiles. "I hope that's satisfactory."
"Very," she returns with a smile of her own.
He walks toward the door, apparently content to let the secret between them stay just that.
"Merlin . . ."
He turns at the sound of his name, stopping just inside the door.
I dreamt of you last night, she wants to say. I dreamt of your eyes.
But all that comes out is, "Thank you . . . for the fire." It crosses her mind that she doesn't know which fire she's thanking him for, and that he may not know either.
She swears she sees a hint of gold fleck through Merlin's eyes as he grins.
"Any time, my lady."