Title: Future In Her HandsAuthor:Fandom: Merlin BBCPairing: Morgana/Arthur, one mention of Gwen/ArthurSpoilers: From 1.08 onwards, this story goes off on a tangent, but there are still some slight spoilersRating: PG-13Word Count: 1626Disclaimer: I don’t own Merlin BBC or the folktale from which it’s based. Summary: Morgana finds out about her future, and how she became to be Morgana Le FayAuthor's Notes: I essentially tried to “re-shift” the legend back. So this is a story on how Morgana becomes a sorceress and Camelot’s enemy. Ignore how the crappy bits. Oh no wait, that’s all of them… Morgana has horrible dreams.Dreams of ransacked castles, screaming children, burning flesh. They come sporadically. Sometimes one after the other, thick and fast, repetitive, relentless. Other times not for months. She has come to fear them because she does not understand them. However that does not stop her from hazarding a guess. One that if proven true will bring her more pain than freedom.It’s easy to brush them off. Surely dreaming of your favourite type of cake being presented to you on the eve of your birthday is simply anticipation. Hardly a premonition. No, she is not a prophetess or a witch, and any dream suggesting otherwise is merely a coincidence. Dreams are the arbitrary twistings of everyday images to form a pointless story. This is repeated in every book, and further affirmed by Gaisus’ kind words of reassurance. And for now she’s content with these half truths and her own denial.So when her nightmare comes to life she is aghast. Sophia is painfully real. Her warm skin, clear eyes, sharp wit all point to her undeniable existence. It’s like watching monsters from a picture book leap off the page before her very eyes. Morgana’s dreams have never ever been so physically close to her. Although this isn’t the first time she’d dreamt of another human being, they’d generally been nameless faces. Crying peasants, dead watchmen, generic soldiers. People far away from the safe haven of Camelot. Gaius sooths her worries with empty words, but Morgana remains nervous. She can’t fight that feeling, the one in the pit of her stomach, running through her very veins. Something terrible is going to happen, unless she can stop it.Anxiety built up from the sight of Arthur’s fleeing back dissipates at his surly frown as he recounts his tale of fake elopement. He rushes quickly through the details, claiming not to remember them, and Morgana obliges with an I told you so. They’re a half hearted attempt to put the past behind them. She teases both his weakness for pretty women and his physical inability to overpower Merlin, but as she leaves Arthur’s bedchamber, her knowing smile falls from her face. She’s no longer smug, but insecure. That was too close. If Merlin hadn’t knocked Arthur out, where would he be now? Somewhere east of the river, a bloated bug eyed body to be found a month later in some poor fisherman’s net? Morgana can’t rely on Merlin, Gaius, Uther or Arthur himself to help her. She can’t expect men to assist her with just an elegant wave of her hand. She has to be strong and leave the comfortable known behind for the murky depths. For the first time that night, she welcomes the dreams. Pours the concoction into a vase of lilies, and invites the nightmares to come. The fear, the pain but also the truth. The night ahead is perilous, and she wakes up with a scream.Yet, from them she discovers many things. They are not always unpleasant. Not always hunger stricken villages and sick children. Her dreams present to her another reality. Sometimes she sees plentiful harvests, rain after a three year drought, flowers in bloom and it’s these dreams that awaken her with a wistful sigh and a knowing smile. But perhaps the greatest knowledge is that the future is liable to change. She does not see battlefields littered with dead bodies as an approaching reality but a warning. The images do not taunt her, but whisper to her and only her. The future is wonderful, because it has not happened yet, and Morgana feels empowered. She alone has the ability to control tomorrow, bend it to her will and sow the seeds of today.Subsequently she tentatively tries her hand at magic. For hasn’t she already proven to be naturally predisposed? It’s little things from a small forbidden book bought under the cover of darkness. In fact it’s less of a book and more of a brochure, designed for the aspiring magician, back when magic was legal. It does not instruct one on how to best split the world in two, or how to bring the sky crashing onto one’s shoulders contrary to popular belief. The booklet only provides Morgana with easy small spells on moving objects, multiplying them, and morphing them slightly, but it’s a start. A glorious start. Not before long though, Morgana seeks out more spells, everywhere she imagines they might be. In old abandoned libraries, among the druids. Moving brooms just aren’t enough, and the power of manipulating objects, having them listen to her is intoxicating. Magic itself is intoxicating, the feel of magic teeming underneath her fingertips always sends tingles up her spine. It brings her new found confidence, not only in her beauty, but now in her skills. She’s no longer the king’s ward, available to the highest bidder or the little girl too big for her boots, whining to fight with a sword too heavy for her to hold. Morgana has her own niche now, and it suits her perfectly. So it doesn’t come as a surprise to her when she pulls Arthur Pendragon, future king of Camelot (that she knows for certain) into a dark corner, and kisses him with the force of two colliding canon balls. It’s more than a little rough, and both of their lips sustain heavy injuries, but it’s liberating, and a perfect climax to her own little love story. He’s appropriately surprised, and for a horrifying second his fingers catch at the material on her hips as if to push her away. To remind her of her stupidity, to ignore the game they’ve been playing. But they only pull her in closer, and she sighs, granting his tongue entrance, his heart admittance, his soul acceptance. It continues on for a little while. Their own dance around a fire of feelings. His eyes flit to hers during festivals, not with the gentle look of a dreamer, but with the spark of carnal knowledge. Arthur doesn’t declare to his knights he’s sleeping with the love of his life, and in turn Morgana doesn’t whisper to her ladies in waiting of her impending nuptials. It’s a secret, a secret without meaning to be one, another something for the just the two of them. They both know which path they’re heading towards. He’ll ask his father for her hand, Uther will beam with pride, accept his offer, and she will become Queen of Camelot. Morgana’s begun to quite like that title now. The way it sounds, the implications it brings. Gwen was right. She was meant to be queen. To rule. Nothing else can compare, and she can’t remember if she ever wanted anything else, but Morgana knows with unassailable confidence that it’s what she wants now. Arthur’s crowning ceremony brings joy. The whole city celebrates at the promise of a better future, led by a better king. A wonderful world where speech is free again and magic no longer forbidden. Morgana has been practicing her magic secretly, preparing for the day she can show the kingdom her great art form, protect them for incoming danger with her gift. And perhaps she’s a little too eager. Perhaps sometimes she wishes for Uther’s death. It begins as an absentminded thought, born from a fit of anger. If only he were gone. A shocking thought Morgana reprimands herself for even thinking, but a true one. Life would be easier without his narrow views, his strict “moral” codes. Besides, Arthur would be better by far. She knows that, the country knows that, history knows that. It’s dark outside, the candles lighting the corridor flicker and the all too familiar tingle alerts Morgana’s senses to the magic in the air. Not the kind she can create with an intense stare, but the kind Arthur evokes teaming with tales of possibility. The night is silent for a moment, before quick footsteps and the sweep of a red cloak against stone breaks the soundlessness of her own breathing. In an instant his arms are around her waist, mouth, desperately searching for her lips. She’s pressed against the cold limestone wall, hands struggling to free the cumbersome cape, lost to his caresses and the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. I love you.It’s still dark when Morgana awakes with a jerk, sitting bolt upright in bed. Arthur groans somewhere to her left, his hand subconsciously searching for her, any part of her to hold, and settles for her upper thigh. He sighs, and the balance in his world has been restored again, but the warmth and security of his hand does nothing to ease her mind. Her dream has left her cold, chilling her to the core. She gasps for breath and waits for the world to turn back to the way it’s suppose to be. Morgana dreams, not of flourishing barley fields or dead carcasses floating in stagnant water. This dream, nightmare, is much worse. The torches are lit, the grand hall decorated in the customary gold and red. People are merry, their unmistakable voices of delight carry far, far away. No immediate danger threatens the kingdom’s happiness and everything looks and feels perfect. Uther stands, hair slightly greyer, stomach slightly larger. He beams with pride, and the teaming anticipation of the crowd manifests itself in an intense buzzing. The light seems brightest at the grand table, to the right of Uther. Uther clears his throat, and begins: “To my son, Arthur and his new wife. May they live a long and prosperous life with many children”. The crowd murmurs in universal agreement as they raises their glasses, and repeats in unison:To Prince Arthur and his Queen, Guinevere.Something terrible is about to happen, and Morgana doesn’t even know if she can stop it.
