Disclaimer: Don't own Merlin or the characters.

This was supposed to be a Samhain fic, but I stayed up way past my bedtime trying to finish the story and concluded that I was so tired what I was typing wasn't actually making any sense any more.

Anyway, it's out on All Soul's Day, and it's the thought that counts. Some people do think that this was the original Samhain day.

Oh and one more thing. I had a little bit of fun by scoring each of the four seasons – one orchestral and one vocal for each. None are really much good, but if anyone is interested, put it in a review and I'll put them up on musescore.

Enjoy and review!

It is horrifying to the point of disbelief that when Uther Pendragon screamed from the palace of Camelot that all sorcerers must die, he never stopped to think who he was condemning. What is magic? We talk of people 'having' magic, but is it something one possesses, like a rake or a plough? Does it feed on a person; are they born with it running through their blood? Is it an element; is it a skill to be honed? Is there magic in the earth, or is it sung from the stars? There is no answer, of course. It is beyond human comprehension, it is a force so beautiful and powerful and alive that to gaze on its true form would burn you alive. It pulses and beats like a heart; it fills the veins and arteries of life, anywhere. It reveals itself in poetry and stories told by the fire and the achingly beautiful songs that play themselves across your tongue. It reveals itself through the power of the earth, through herb laws and fire and air and the trees that stand tall. And it reveals itself in men and women, in children, in their hearts and souls so that they glow golden, and the earth welcomes them as brothers and sisters, the elements as their friends and secret keepers. Magic should never be hidden, it should run free; it should flow through the earth like water.

It's hard to keep magic secret. So hard, that many children begged and entreated by their parents to try and stop couldn't, it was too much for their young bodies to take. The slaughters were inhuman in their atrocity; children forced underwater screaming, their hands beaten away from the edge of wells as they tried to climb out. Mothers wailing in agony, desperately clutching at tiny lifeless bodies and rocking them from side to side.

That Samhain, Merlin can feel the magic humming and vibrating in strains in the air. It calls out to him, singing to his bones and calling to his blood. All he can feel is the power running through him, something strong and forceful that he cannot resist anymore than he could resist breathing. It is frustrating, like an itch he cannot scratch. He would be polishing armour when suddenly he would drop what he was carrying and walk to the window, every instinct screaming for him to follow – whatever it was – and allow his magic to run free. But he cannot, of course. He has a job and duties and a destiny and he cannot afford to be following the urges of his soul. However, repeatedly telling himself that doesn't change the fact that he spends most of the day gazing out of the window trying to prevent his feet from carrying him all the way to wherever this was coming from. Finally, even Arthur notices.

"What on earth is wrong with you today, Merlin? I mean, this takes halfwit village idiot to a new extreme."

"Not feeling well," Merlin says distantly, still looking out of the window.

"Not feeling well?" Arthur asks, a little concerned. "Nothing catching, is it?"

"What?" Merlin starts, looking round and staring at Arthur as if he had never seen him before. Arthur claps a hand on his shoulder.

"Right Merlin, I think it's time you had a holiday. Perhaps I have been working you a little hard, but I'm just trying to make things right after Morgana's little hostile takeover."

"I know." Merlin says, earnestly. "You're doing a great job sire."

"I know I am." Arthur says self-importantly. "But I can't have you working yourself to death. For one thing Gwen would never forgive me. Take a rest, go see Hunith, I'm sure she would love a visit."

"What?" Merlin asks distractedly, having spent Arthur's last speech trying not to turn the door handle and run to wherever was calling him. With an almighty groan, Arthur picks Merlin up by his shirt collar and physically hauls him out of the room.

"Give my love to Hunith," he calls out, before slamming the door shut and throwing himself back on to his bed.

Merlin stands, slowly processing that he actually has a day off for the first time in – he can't even remember the last time he had a day off. Looking around furtively to check that nobody can see him, he closes his eyes and allows the magic that had been gently tugging at his sleeve to engulf him. It's beautiful, and strong, and it's calling him.

Come bearers of burden, come tellers of tales,

Lay your head on our shoulders and tell of your ails.

O' the rich man will feast with no rest for the poor,

But all stand as equals when they knock at death's door.

An old song; ancient. He could feel it in his bones. Suddenly a wave of excitement runs through him, his heart beating fast. He could go. He could go and use magic and celebrate Samhain with people like him; people who would understand him…as the thought runs through his mind, his heart sinks. They wouldn't understand. There would be those who knew him as Emrys, and think he was a traitor, a criminal. They wouldn't know about Albion. If he followed, he would have to somehow disguise himself…as the thought plays through his mind, a grin near breaks the sides of his face and he sprints back to his chambers.

He sits himself in front of a bowl of water, carefully watching his reflection in the surface. He's used this magic before, but only in its most extreme form. And it was exhausting – it made him feel as if someone had put a four poster bed on his back. But if he could pick apart the strands of the spell and make it a gradual process… his heart began to race, and he fixed his eyes on the water surface. His eyes glowed golden, and he whispered a quiet incantation, ever so slowly rotating his hand. Ever so slowly, his hair began to grow, his skin hardening and a beard forming. It's an aging spell, but so delicate, so intricate that it ages him not by decades but by months. He thinks he must be about thirty now – that's a good five years older. He tightens his fist, gently pushing himself further until – yes – thirty-five. Curious, he examines himself further in the bowl. His skin crinkles slightly around his eyes, a few frown lines around the bridge of his nose, and his beard reaches down to his collarbone. What amazes him is his hair – it's thick and long, reaching his shoulders. There are streaks of grey in his hair, but they don't seem to age him.

"I'm going to look good in ten years." Merlin murmurs, admiring his new physique. "Goodbye awkward mid-twenties, hello rugged all-powerful mid-thirties." He looks in to the water and frowns. He appears – different, but still Merlin.

"Come on, think." What made him Merlin? What was it that people recognised him by?

"You have such beautiful eyes, Merlin." His mother said, her arms around her sobbing son. "Sometimes I think that they reflect the sky, in all its different moods and tones. And to me, they're even more beautiful when they glow golden. But you have to be more careful around the other children. They might not understand."

Slowly, Merlin concentrates on the reflection of his eyes. In vain, he attempts to change them, working his magic in to the pigments of colour and willing them to darken. Still they stared back at him, unflinchingly blue. Cursing, he fell back on to his bed, running his hands through his hair.

"So I can't change the colour. That makes sense, they glow gold when I perform magic, so obviously a lot of magic must be rooted there." He mutters to himself. "So what then? Come on, Merlin, think!" He massaged his temples, mulling the problem over.

"My magic reflects itself through my eyes, but – but my eyes look different in different lights. Like mother said, they reflect the colours of the sky. So if I could change the light around my eyes…" He stares in to the bowl of water, before ever – so – gently turning his hand. He resists the urge to punch the air – they fluctuate from their bright azure shade to a deep blue grey, and finally to a soft colour that reminded him of a dove's wing.

"Perfect," he mutters. Slipping out of his trademark red shirt and blue neckerchief, he pulled on a slightly rougher, flaxen tunic and a blue hooded cloak.

"Merlin?" Comes a voice, and he starts, jumping to his feet and pulling his cloak around him.

"Come in!" He calls. His voice is deeper, more melodic. God he is looking forward to thirty-five. Gwen enters; a circlet perched precariously on her curls, her face flustered.

"Oh Merlin thank God I found…" She looks up, frowning. She opens her mouth, before closing it again, a little confused.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was looking for Merlin. Are you – are you a cousin? Or…"

"Aye, and a distant one, your Grace." He grins, trying desperately not to laugh. "I haven't seen him since we were boys, I was hoping to find him here."

"Oh. Well, the King has sent him home to Ealdor. You'll find him there, if you wish to become reacquainted. How – Merlin has never mentioned a cousin."

"I was fifteen when I left for the Mercian army." Merlin improvises wildly. "Merlin was but five summers, he probably barely remembers me. Hunith, though, she was like a mother to me."

"Oh, how wonderful for you to be back then!" Gwen beams. "I'm a close friend of Merlin's – you can call me Gwen. What can I call you?"

"Oh, um…" Merlin flounders, looking around. "Um – Asa. My name is Asa. Your – Gwen, if my cousin has returned to Ealdor I really think I ought to join him. But it was a pleasure to meet you, My Lady."

"Not at all, the pleasure is all mine. Give my love to Merlin, would you?"

Merlin practically whoops as he clambers up one of the hills surrounding Camelot. Not one of his many acquaintances had recognised him on his way – even the cook had batted her eyelashes at him and wished him a pleasant Samhain, rather than her usual greeting of a ladle over the head. Laughing, he summons the leaves from the trees around him and allows them to dance around him, spinning and twirling as they pick up speed, a myriad of golden oranges and deep reds. It is invigorating; it is like he is pouring water down his throat after a week in the desert lands.

"Beautiful." He murmurs, gently lowering the leaves to the ground and picking up a fallen branch. With the golden glow of his eyes, a staff in his hand and the most magnificent beard ever to grace a man under sixty, Merlin feels powerful, and strong, and like Emrys. He is finally him, that man who would bring about the age of magic.

He laughs giddily, before breaking off as the hum of magic hits him with double the force, leading him with a hunger, almost a craving. He was a part of it; it flowed through him and enticed him, called to him and answered within him. He was a leaf, blowing around on swift breeze around and around and glowing golden. The branch he holds seems to sense it, and Merlin gapes as the bough moulds itself before his eyes, twisting and turning until it too vibrates with the magic surrounding him, forming the shape of some sort of tree. He's close, he must be now, and as he clambers to the top of the hill he is nearly knocked off his feet with the full force of it.

"Come on Merlin." He mutters, "Call yourself the most powerful sorcerer ever to have lived?" Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and, trembling, 'opens' his mind's eye. Oh but this is much better – he can feel it far more acutely, as if someone had drawn a red 'X' on a map. Opening his two physical eyes again, he travels over two hills; through a small glen, up yet another mountainous-looking rock and he can see them; down in the valley: Men and women working in the fields, drawing in the last of the harvest. Some bear scythes, each stroke in time as they carve out a steady rhythm. Some work in the orchards and vineyards, picking what fruit remains and filling baskets with the rich produce. Livestock are herded, children climb trees and throw apple cores at each other – it is a village, buzzing with life and activity.

And yet as Merlin scrambles down the treacherous mountain path, there are just little things that make him feel certain that this is what is pulling him. The smoke coming from the thatched cottages further down the valley is not black, but a myriad of autumnal colours: Orange-reds and scarlets to deep ambers and golds. The apple cores that the children throw at each other do not hit the ground upon hitting, or indeed missing their target. Instead they zoom around, hitting anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way. The very earth seems to sing of the magic that thrives in that mountain valley – he has never seen anything like it. Here magic is not a curse to be hidden, it is a part of the people; a part of the earth and a part of the harvest they reap. He knows he was right to come here. This is how Samhain should be celebrated, not a half-hearted remembrance of the old religion, disguised as a holiday of the trinity as it was in Camelot.

As he draws closer, he begins to hear a tune, sung heartily by every man, woman and child. Rich basses, achingly beautiful sopranos and the sweet treble and descant of the children all joining together in melody against counter melodies and drones, the swing of scythes providing a rhythm.

Come brother come sister we will stand as one,

And the dead will walk with us come set of sun.

For our table is full from the fruit of the land,

And the dead and the living shall dance hand in hand.

His voice joins with theirs, finding a counter-melody as if it was engrained in his soul and all the while feeling so wonderfully alive with the power and beauty that joins his soul to theirs.

Come bearers of burden, come tellers of tales,

Lay your head on our shoulders and tell of your ails.

O' the rich man will feast with no rest for the poor,

But all stand as equals when they knock at death's door.

As he approaches the fields, a young woman runs up to him, a maiden of seventeen or eighteen from the look of her.

"Welcome, traveller. What brings you to these parts?"

"A calling." He answers. "I would help bring the harvest in, if it pleases you, madam."

"As the Goddess wills." She chirps back brightly, handing him a scythe and gesturing where he might work. "There's so much magic around today I suppose someone was bound to notice it. What magics do you possess?" Merlin stares at her in confusion.

"Excuse me?" She waves a hand.

"Are your powers of fire, earth, air or water?" Frowning at his blank expression, she elaborates, "Everyone's magic is different. My magic is based in the earth. It makes me a natural healer." She says proudly, with a little toss of her head. Merlin starts.

"Oh, I never really thought about it like that. I – I think I have the powers of all four. I have never felt any preference to a particular type of magic."

"All four?" She looks at him sceptically. "There are a few who walk the earth endowed with the powers of all four, but they are a rarity, and extremely powerful. Indeed, there is only one in this village who has fire, water, air and earth running through their veins." Merlin opens his mouth to ask who that might be, but before the words can leave his mouth there comes a shout.

"Helen! If you can't work and talk, just work!"

"Sorry!" She yells back, before giving Merlin a sympathetic shrug and running back to the orchards.

Merlin decides that if he is going to stay he had better put some work in. He lifts and drops the heavy scythe, slowly getting in to the rhythm of the people around him. Sheaf after sheaf of wheat, barley and rye are bundled and given to those responsible for stocking the grain stores. The sun sinks further and further in to the sky, and the work speeds up rather than slowing down, the murmured 'Not much longer!' on everyone's lips. Merlin hacks and hacks until his back aches and the sweat pours down his brow despite the October chill, and still he persists. This place – it's like everything he dreamed of, a shining beacon of hope for the long dark and dreary days of persecution and prejudice. He wants to serve it, wants to show whoever founded this community the joy they have given him.

It is then he sees her. He barely recognises her at first, she is so changed; and as he watches her his heart seems to slow its beating in shock. Her skin is a little bronzed and freckled from working in the sun, and her hair is tied back to keep it from catching in her scythe. But no one could mistake those green eyes, so like the sea in their changing moods: Soft blue-greens when she smiles and laughs, to the grey-green of a sea tempest, the flashes of anger and pain like waves crashing against the rocks. Morgana Pendragon works just a few rows down from him, dressed like a peasant woman and laughing with the woman working next to her. And suddenly his dream is poisoned, tainted. All around him he can see those susceptible to her plans for Camelot: Her next army in her plan for takeover. He imagines her whispering in to Helen's ear, telling her of how unjust Camelot's regime is, how the throne should be rightfully hers.

A red haze fills his gaze, and he wants to strangle her, to end her reign of chaos and terror and prevent this village from falling down in to damnation. So what stops him? He could end this all right here, and no one would know it was he. He doesn't even look like himself. Of course, what stops him is what has always stopped him. Hope. Brief and flickering, hovering in his breast like a bird in a cage. That she might have changed: That when he snapped and sent Aithusa after her that fateful day because he thought that a part of him might die with her should she die, something might have changed. He was a fool; he had hoped once too many times to call his wishes a possibility. But he can't bear it. When he had poisoned her, holding her in his arms as she gasped for the last tendrils of air, he thought he might die under the crushing weight of guilt. Her blood had engrained itself onto his hands, and scrub as he might he can never wash it off. Yet still there is more: She is the darkness to his light, a part of him, his equal and one who he cannot relinquish. Not yet.

As these thoughts enter his mind, she looks up and calls.

"The sun will set soon! Throw down your scythes, bring your baskets to those in the kitchens and let us begin to set the table for our feast." A resounding cheer meets her words, and the workers lift baskets on to their backs and heads, still singing strains of old hymns.

O our toil is now over the harvest is done,

We will feast on our fruits upon set of sun.

Give thanks to the mother, our saviour and light,

As our forefathers rise on the bleak Samhain night.

He falls back in to step with Helen, who is managing to shoulder a hefty bag of potatoes.

"So, I couldn't help but notice Morgana Pendragon amidst the crowd." She regards him suspiciously.

"And what of it?" He grins at her sheepishly, wildly reaching for a cover story.

"I've been serving in the highlands for a two years now, I haven't seen her since she was a ward at King Uther's court. Helen relaxes.

"Oh well if that's all. Long story short, she and her sister waged war against the tyrant King Uther and lost, leaving her sister dead. Morgana tried to take back the Kingdom by force in March, but failed and was left for dead in the forest of Essetir."

"And then what happened?" Merlin asks, trying to keep his voice level. Helen sighs.

"Oh it sounds so lovely. She told me that a dragon came down to her, not the Great, old one but a white one, small like. Morgana said she thought it was an angel come to take her to heaven, but this dragon breathed life back in to her." Merlin's eyes soften. He had spent hours, days even regretting his decision to save her. Perhaps something good had come of it.

"What's Morgana like." He asks quietly. Helen straightens up, pride in her voice.

"She is the kindest, most compassionate woman I have ever met. Yes, she has gone wrong in the past, but she had turned all of that pain and hurt and betrayal in to something amazing, a community in which people can practice magic without fear of execution. She works with us, prays with us and shares in our suffering. This is her work, her kingdom. Soon, villages shall spread all through the mountain valleys, it will be a kingdom free from tyranny and oppression." Merlin gazes at Morgana's figure, watching as a small girl approaches her and the young witch hoists the child up on to her hip. "She is a mother to every child, a sister to every woman. Yes she is dark, so much of her magic is dark and sometimes there are moments when she retreats in to herself and she has to fight to get back. But she always does get back, and we love her all the more for fighting."

Merlin walks, but now he is lost in thought. Something inside him is rekindling; something that is too small and too feeble to walk out in to the crisp October air but that settles in his stomach and makes him feel sick with anticipation. As he walks, the sky seems to mirror the autumn leaves, a rich tapestry of crimsons and ambers and golds. The table they come to is impossibly long (magic, he realises) and is laden with all sorts of stews and tarts and pies. Every glass has filled itself with cool spring water, and a thick bowl of pumpkin soup sits as the first meal – what they will share together as they break their fast. Beside them, villagers strike flint against flint, a pile of sticks already moulding itself in to a blazing bonfire. As each villager takes their seat, Morgana stands at the head of the table, her hair now loose and fluttering in the breeze. When she speaks, her melodic tone rings out in to the night.

"Sisters, brothers and children. The harvest we brought in tonight marks the end of near half a year of toil and hard labour. But we did it. The earth looks after its own; and our grain stores are full. Each one of you brought something to this table, each one of you worked and gambled on the success of our community. For this I thank you, with all my heart. The villagers erupted in to cheers, raising their glasses to the sorceress. Merlin joins them, scarcely daring to believe his eyes. Yes she might look different to the Morgana of the last year, but the real, noticeable difference is that she is happy. More than that, she is radiant. Fulfilled. Merlin feels twinges of jealousy pull at his heart, and he wonders why this had all happened to Morgana, one who had made so many mistakes, whilst he remained in service in Camelot. The cheers die down, and her tone grows serious.

"Tonight is Samhain, the night in which our ancestors join with us in the coming of winter and the slumber of the land. I know there is not one of you sitting here who has not lost someone dear. The purge left no family untouched, and tonight we remember those who lost their lives. Morgana lifted her head, and Merlin saw her eyes were filled with tears.

"I lost my sister this very day last year. She was the only member of my family who truly cared for me, and not a day goes past in which I don't miss her and mourn her. I know some here may disagree with our actions in the past, but know that she wanted the best for those with magic, and wanted us to be able to practice freely.

"So let us say a prayer for our ancestors, for our lost sisters and brothers and for the children cruelly slain. For whilst death may seem like the greatest barrier, Samhain shows us that the dead never truly leave us. They are watching over, loving us. For them."

"For them." The sentence reverberates amongst the villagers, and Merlin too prays.

"For them. For my father, for Freya and for Nimueh. May the Goddess have mercy on them all."

Soon after the feast begins, and the silent ache of sadness is lost amongst the abundance of the harvest, and the goodwill amongst the villagers. Merlin eats heartily, filling his hollow belly and cracking jokes with the men sitting opposite. A boy sitting next to him spills his drink, only looking at him with large vacant eyes when Merlin yelps.

"Apologies." An old man, whom Merlin presumes to be the boy's guardian, offers. "My Grandson cannot quite control his actions."

"Think nothing of it." Merlin assures him, dabbing at the wet cloak. The man goes on.

"His parents –my daughter and son-in-law – and my three beautiful granddaughters, all killed in the great purge. The Camelot soldiers ducked my grandson under the water to see if he too had magic – you know the old superstition – and I couldn't get there in time. He survived, but he has not been quite right since."

"I am so sorry." Merlin says earnestly, his cloak forgotten as the man addresses him.

"The Lady Morgana has been so good to him. She has even begun to teach him his letters, and how to control his wayward magic. I fear sometimes I am too impatient with the boy, but not her. She is as gentle with him as if she was his own mother." Merlin blinks. Morgana? Patient? Gentle?

The glasses begin to fill themselves with honey mead and hot wine, and Merlin takes sip after sip, giddy on the success of his findings and on the prayers on his lips for Morgana. How many glasses has he had? He's not quite sure, but the world seems to be spinning merrily, spinning with the couples that dance around the raging bonfire. The flames fragment themselves in his vision like stained glass, and he is dimly aware that Morgana has left the table and is wandering up the mountainside. A new voice seems to have awakened inside him – possibly the drink – that tells him he should go after her. This could be your chance, he thought to himself. Go after her. Talk to her. Emboldened, he runs after her, ignoring the couples slowly undressing each other in front of the flames.

"My lady!" He calls. "My lady, are you well?"

"I need some air!" She throws back at him, picking up her skirts and running up the mountain path, away from him. Undeterred, he sprints after her, catching her arm.

"It's not safe up here, not in the dark."

"I can look after myself." She wrenches her arm free, and looks at him, frowning.

"Who are you? I know the face of every villager, but not you." He ducks back, the lies that play so easily off his lips suddenly stumbling.

"I – my name is Asa, my lady. I'm a soldier, that is I served in the highlands, and I felt the magic – well, it was almost like it called me." He's talking to Morgana and she doesn't recognise him. No insults, no memory of their betrayals, just Merlin and Morgana talking.

"Called you?" She looks at him with interest. "You must be very closely bound to the elements to feel it." She plants herself down on the rock they stand on, patting the ground beside her. "Well then. Sit with me, Asa. Let us talk. What brings you here?" He hesitates a little, before seating himself beside her, the wisps of her hair tickling his shoulder.

"I'm sick of having to hide." He says slowly. "I hate it, and I hate that the people I would call my friends can never know who I really am, else they would hate me. Sometimes I wish I could let everything go, and just scream in to the wind and ride the tempest so that everyone might see that I have power; that I am not just some weak willed ser-soldier to be manipulated. But I can't. How can I?" Morgana rests her head on his shoulder, and Merlin begins to suspect that she is the tiniest bit drunk too.

"My poor soldier." She whispers. Is she flirting with him? "I know, I know how it feels and I understand. But never be ashamed of how you were born. You are blessed. Never forget." Something of what she says seems to touch him deep inside.

"And what about you, my lady? What drew you to this place?" She laughs a little sadly, drawing her cloak around her.

"In March I was near fatally wounded, and stood on the precipice of death. I've been ill before, cracked my skull on hard stones and lost a tempestuous duel with an aged sorcerer. But that time, it was different. I could feel the life draining out of me, each breath more painful and the last and I thought why? All Camelot has ever brought me is pain, and sorrow, and in the process I have become something I hate. All I ever wanted was for people like me to be accepted, but all I had done was sent them in to battle and get them killed unnecessarily.

"So once Aithusa – the dragon I'm sure someone has told you about by now – had healed me, I gathered all the druids and sorcerers and witches I could find, and lead them here. Some were doubtful, some called me evil and a demon, but now – look at what I have achieved. These children will never know the fear of having to control the uncontrollable, fight the irrepressible – never, not so long as I rule." She says fiercely, tossing her hair. Merlin looks at her in awe. This is all he could ever have hoped and so, so much more. You'll never get a chance again. A voice whispers. She'll never let you do this when you're Merlin, so tell her now! Gently, he took her in his arms, enveloping her in his embrace. He murmurs.

"I'm sorry, Morgana. For everything."

She stiffens at first, evidently confused by this blatant display of emotion from a stranger. More than that, he seems familiar. Like looking at an old portrait of someone, he looked familiar but not like anyone she knew. But she relaxes. No one's ever really said sorry to her, really and truly meaning it. It makes her want to cry. Tears begin to pool at her eyes, and she blinks to stop him from seeing.

"Why thank you." She murmurs. "You odd man, you're very good to say so." A very slightly awkward silence falls between them, as they gaze at the sky. Merlin begins to feel the chill of the night-time air so high up in the mountains, and he whispers,

"Forbearnan," almost conducting the flames with his handsuntil there is a merry fire ablaze. Morgana looks across at him, a small smile playing itself across her lips.

"Impressive, Asa." She mocks him, warming her hands in front of the fire. "For a child of five." Irked by her lackadaisical attitude to what – okay may not be his most impressive display of magic, but is still keeping her warm, he whispers a quiet enchantment, one that he has been honing for quite a while.

"spearwena fýrcynn!"Near a dozen sparrows, moulded out of the flames, begin to hop around, some taking flight and lighting up the air around them like falling stars.

"Very pretty." Morgana teases. "Fenixes fyrcynn!" Her eyes seem to burn with the intensity of the fire as a burning phoenix emerges from the flames, consuming and vanquishing Merlin's dainty sparrows at one fell swoop. The air fills with their laughter, each trying to conjure up an even bigger flame animal to vanquish the other's creation.'

"Dracan réadlescre fyrcynn!" Merlin cries out, near breathless from laughter. A dragon emerges, red hot from the flames, breathing – yes, even more fire.

"Oh no you don't!" Morgana gasps, the reflection of the fire dancing in those emerald eyes, alive with green and gold. "Dracan hwitjre fyrcynn!" Her dragon burns white hot, with glowing embers for its eyes. The dragons roar, spreading and flapping their wings until they meet and burst in to a shower of sparks, raining down on Merlin and Morgana like confetti. His hand meets hers, and they watch the falling embers like children, their eyes as wide as saucers. As the bright golds fade in to the deep blue of the night, they look at each other. Meeting each other's eyes without pain or fear or betrayal. That's because she's not really looking at you. A snide voice whispers n his head, but he brushes it away. Suddenly he is attuned to every sound around them. The chirping of the crickets, the crackling of the fire. Her breathing. His heartbeat.

"Morgana, I…" he begins, but she cuts him off, bringing his head to meet hers, her lips soft and wet and parted gently. He blinks slowly as she pulls away, an impish smirk much like those she used to give him in Camelot gracing her lips.

"W – what?" Merlin stammers, unable to process this turn of events.

"If you want to. I need – this. You. It." She murmurs against his mouth, before kissing him harder, her hands fisted in his shirt as the movements of her lips become more and more passionate and suddenly he responds, pulling her against him, his hands running up her arms, down her sides, circling her hips and breasts. Her blouse is unbuttoned and cast aside whilst she presses hot, opened mouthed kisses at his collar bone, her lips trembling and vibrating as she shivers with cold. He cups her breasts with shaky, calloused hands, before nipping and sucking and mouthing and watching with pleasure as she gasps and wriggling with delight. It's all moving so fast that coupled with the drink Merlin half thinks this to be a dream. She pushes him down on to the ground, straddling his lap and unbuttoning his trousers, playing her fingers up and down where he's really hard. He wants this. Wants her. Can't bear that she doesn't know him, can't bear that if she knew him she would hate him. She's become better, has begun to redeem herself. Has he?

"Tonic." Merlin mutters, struggling to form coherent sentences. "You must have a tonic."

"Are you sure?" Morgana murmurs, as he kisses her neck hungrily. "Children conceived on this night are blessed. You wouldn't have to raise the child. You wouldn't even have to know of their existence."

"But I would know." He whispers in to her neck, and his beard tickles in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant. She moans as he pulls her down on top of him, his hand trailing up her inner thigh and drawing ever closer to where she needs it to be. Arching her back, she murmurs,

"Well you know; I'm far too comfortable to move now." Reaching over to where her cloak is discarded, she pulls out a vial and downs it in one, grimacing.

"Not the most pleasant of tastes." She sighs. "But quite effective. Now come and kiss me." He does so immediately, pulling her back down on to the ground and putting his cloak beneath her.

"Very gentlemanly," she teases, but barely gets to finish her sentence as he resumes the attack on her mouth, her skirt getting bunched up higher and higher until finally he pulls the offending garment off, and she returns the favour with his trousers until finally clothing surrounds them like weeds, sprouting from the cracks in the ground. He hesitates a little, kneeling between her parted thighs and she mewls in frustration.

"Are you…that is to say have you…" They have to stop then because Morgana can't actually speak she's laughing so hard, and he has turned a brilliant shade of red.

"Oh Asa, your face when you thought you might be bedding a virgin." She adopts a mock serious expression. "I'm a priestess of two and twenty, not a nun. Now for the love of the Goddess will you please shut up!" She begins to kiss him passionately, pressing herself up against him and fuck he's not going to last much longer if she keeps doing that so he enters her in one swift movement. She throws back her head and gasps.

"Go on." He drives in to her, over and over on to the ground and her eyes are clouded over with lust and longing and as she draws his mouth to hers, the hum of her moans vibrating against his lips. Morgana wraps her legs around his waist, lifting her hips to meet his and this is glorious, far better than anything she's ever done before and she doesn't even have to ask for him to move his hands down and begin to caress her there. After an indefinite amount of time she screams, crying out to the Goddess until she gasps and collapses beneath him, still choking out the last broken remains of bliss. He follows not long after, until they're both lying on the floor, utterly spent. Well, not quite utterly spent but still catching their breath.

"Do you think we could do that again?" Morgana pants, resting her elbows on his chest and letting her eyes meet his. Not that she could see – they appear to be infinite pools of black from where she lies.

"Give me a minute," he chuckles breathlessly, and she joins him, laughing and kissing and touching and all the while trying to regain their breath and failing miserably.

"What happens next?" He asks, "When do you kick me out?"

"The end of the night. I'm afraid I've got no plans of marrying you." Relieved, Merlin nods. "If you don't leave before sunrise, that's a marriage proposal. But then again, if I say no now, you could just stay here."

"You want me to?" She buries her head in to the crook of his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around her, still barely able to believe that this was Morgana.

"Yes." Came her answer, and he begins to kiss her again, bending over her as his hands run through her hair. Suddenly he breaks off, frowning.

"Do you want a child?" She grins a little sheepishly.

"Not really. I was always going to take the tonic, I just wanted to see your face."

"And?" Merlin asks, shrewdly, and she frowns at his perception.

"And I guess I'm lonely, and a little drunk. I guess there was a tiny, minute part of me that didn't want to be so alone. But it would have been a bad idea." She says flatly, lying back against his fur cloak and turning away slightly, looking up at the clear night's sky, with its golden moon. "Samhain's the saddest of the festivals. Yes we are at our closest to our ancestors, and to those who lie beyond the veil, but all it does is show how truly apart we are from them now. All those mothers who can feel the presence of their children tonight. Do you think it makes them feel happier? Does it lessen the grief that the tyrant inflicted upon them? All it brings is sorrow and heartache.

"But at the same time, they long for it. And I know because I long to see my sister, and show her how I've brought about a better world, how I don't need Camelot. I can feel her, standing behind me, her hair brushing my cheek. But when I turn around she isn't there. And she never will be. She's gone." Morgana brushes away the tears angrily, and Merlin wipes them gently with his thumb, pulling her close to him and allowing her to lay her head on his chest.

"What of you, Asa? Is there no one whom you wish to see tonight? No one you can feel?"

"Of course." Merlin murmurs. "There always is, and you're right, it doesn't help. It never stops hurting. But to lay an extra place for them at a table gives me some sort of comfort. You realise that they're never gone, not really. Not so long as someone holds them dear in their hearts. And us two, we banished the cold tonight. We are the living, and they are the dead. We are soft flesh and warm pulsing blood and we proved it tonight, that we can live for them." He says the last part fiercely, and Morgana does something unexpectedly tender. She kisses the tears from his eyes, wrapping her arms around him and feeling his grief.

"A woman." She says quietly. "You mourn a woman."

"My first sweetheart. She was cursed, and was eventually killed. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like had she lived." Merlin whispers, hoarsely. "But then I remember that I am alive, and how important those three words are. I am alive. I cannot love a dead woman. As the days went past, I began to realise I never really knew her. She didn't really speak very much. I never knew her flaws, what made her angry, I never argued with her and I never hurt her feelings, or let her hurt mine. I had made her in to a Goddess after her death and worshipped the fleeting love that brushed against my breast. But that wasn't fair to her, or to me."

"Oh Asa," Morgana whispers, and the two cling to each other, lasting out the night together in each other's arms.