Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~

Somewhere on the outskirts of Stormhold, not too far from the wall which separates it from the land of humans, a baby is crying. The girl carrying it is desperate and frightened and alone and perhaps the baby can sense that, perhaps it knows on some level what they are fleeing from, but perhaps it is just cold and lonely and scared, too.

“Hush, Morgana, please,” Isolde begs, her eyes darting around them with fear shining bright. She rocks the baby back and forth in her arms, quickens her pace as much as she dares, and doesn’t duck out of the shadows of the trees until the last possible second.

Then she runs and runs and runs, ignoring the shouts echoing behind her, until she reaches the wall and leaps over it in a neat arc. She lands on her feet in a crouch, Morgana held tight to her chest. The soldiers won’t cross the wall, she knows that, but she keeps running anyway, doesn’t stop until she’s within sight of the gates of the castle.

The guards give her a suspicious look as she approaches. “Who are you?” one of them demands. “What business do you have at this hour?”

“My name is Isolde. I need to speak with Uther Pendragon,” Isolde says, just as Vivienne instructed her to. Isolde blinks, blinks again, and doesn’t cry. She doesn’t have that luxury right now. “It’s a matter of the utmost urgency.”

The guard looks her over sceptically, and Isolde knows he sees but a tiny wisp of a girl, her dress in tatters, her skin smeared with dirt and grime, her hair a mess. Isolde straightens her spine, and Isolde glares at him with all the ferocity she possesses.

“The utmost urgency,” she repeats. “Tell him Queen Vivienne sent me.”

The guard doesn’t look any more convinced, but he does leave, muttering something disparaging under his breath, and Isolde can only hope he returns.

He does, what seems like an eternity later, and says, almost reluctantly, “The king agreed to see you. Come with me.”

Isolde nods her acknowledgement, and does. The guard leads her down winding corridors, past darkened rooms, until he stops in front of a pair of massive doors, which he hauls open and then strides through. Isolde follows, keeping her head held high.

“The girl, your highness,” the guard says, nodding at her.

Isolde looks at the man he’s addressing, and raises her eyebrows; Vivienne’s description had been vague, but Isolde is certain she would have been able to identify this man as Uther Pendragon anyway.

He’s handsome enough, but his hair is starting to thin at the temples, his face going hard with a bitterness Isolde recognises, knows intimately. It is the bitterness of losing someone you love far before you were ready to, not that anyone is ever really ready to lose their loved ones.

Uther looks at her, and Isolde knows he sees the same thing the guards did. He dismisses her in the same instant, and beckons for her to approach with the same easy, careless arrogance of rich men the world over, utterly assured of his place in the world, of his own value.

Yes, Isolde thinks distastefully, there is no doubt that this is Uther. She can only wonder what Vivienne, dear sweet Vivienne, saw in him.

“My name is Isolde,” Isolde says, still bristling at the guard’s address, even though she knows her words fall on deaf ears. She is but a girl, and a poor, ragged one at that. She’s barely worth Uther Pendragon’s time.

Uther nods at the guard, who bows and leaves, shutting the great doors behind him. Uther turns to look at her, carefully assessing. “You have news of Queen Vivienne of Stormhold?” he says, and to his credit, he does sound genuinely interested in what she has to say. If Isolde were feeling more generous, she may even call him worried.

“Of a sort,” Isolde says, and presents the bundle in her arms to him. Morgana is asleep, bless her soul, and she looks so peaceful nestled in the blankets. “This is her daughter, Morgana. And yours, as it happens.”

Uther’s face instantly turns stormy. “I have no idea what you mean. I can assure you I-”

“Spare me, please,” Isolde interrupts, unable to keep the disgust out of her voice. “You recognised my mistress’s name, don’t tell me you have no recollection of fucking her.”

Uther reels back like she slapped him, and Isolde stands up a little straighter, defiant.

“You cannot address me like that,” he fumes, “I am a king-”

“But you are not my king,” Isolde says, “thank the gods. Even Caerleon himself is preferable to you.”

Uther’s head snaps up at that; his gaze had wandered to Morgana, still sleeping soundly in Isolde’s arms. “Caerleon? But what of Queen Vivienne?”

“Dead,” Isolde says tonelessly. “Murdered by Caerleon so he could seize the throne.”

Uther’s eyes widen. “No,” he says, sounding oddly bereft. Perhaps he really did care about Vivienne, Isolde thinks, but she wouldn’t bet on it.

“She was executed this morning,” Isolde tells him, “along with her husband and consort, Gorlois,” and Uther looks away, cannot meet her eyes. Good, she thinks, only a little vicious. There is some humanity left in him yet. “Her other daughter, Morgause, was sent away before Caerleon could learn of her existence, but Morgana was not so fortunate. She was to be killed too, but Vivienne instructed me to smuggle her out of the kingdom and take her to you. She thought,” Isolde says, a bitter smile twisting her lips, “that Morgana would have a better life here, with her father.”

Uther’s eyes flick to the bundle, and something very, very strange happens to his face. “Morgana,” he repeats, softly, as if to himself, and then he shakes his head hard. “And what,” he says, “made her think I would take the wretch in?”

“She’s your child,” Isolde barks, suddenly furious, “does that mean nothing to you?”

“I have a child,” Uther says. “What need do I have of another? And a girl, at that.”

Isolde lifts her hand like she’s going to slap him – or curse him or something – but instead she only moves the bundles of cloth aside and lifts Morgana out to him. When Uther doesn’t move to take her, Isolde just lifts an eyebrow and says, “Don’t you want to see her, even? Your own flesh and blood?”

Uther gives her a dubious look but takes Morgana from her, holding her gingerly. She’s old enough now to have a shock of dark hair, the beginnings of a set of teeth in her mouth. She looks nothing like her father, Isolde thinks, but she can see the ways in which Morgana will look like Vivienne, the set of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, and she thinks Uther can see it too, from the way his eyes go strangely soft, the way his face gentles into an almost smile.

Isolde stands there for what feels like an age, waiting, watching, silently beseeching Uther to do the right thing for what must be the first and possibly the last time in his life. She was not hopeful, drained her last vestiges of energy just to get here with Morgana, but as she watches Uther she lets herself hope once more, for Morgana’s sake if nothing else.

(Morgana is the most beautiful thing Isolde has ever seen, and it is killing her to have to hand her over to this horrible, horrible little man, but it was Vivienne’s dying wish that Morgana be raised by her father and not the druids like her sister, and so here Isolde is.)

And then, finally, “I will take her,” Uther says, and Isolde exhales.

“Good,” she says curtly, because she cannot quite bring herself to thank Uther for this, for having basic human decency.

Uther only waves a dismissive hand in response, still staring at Morgana, and Isolde forces herself to step back, to step away, before someone does it for her. She allows herself one last look at the baby she knows in her heart she will never, ever see again, and then she flees.

~

Morgana wakes, sitting up abruptly, rubbing at her aching forehead. The details of her dream are already fading, but she has vague images of Uther, twenty years younger, and a girl she doesn’t know but feels like she should, somehow.

Gwen looks up at her from the foot of her bed where she’s folding linens, and smiles. “Good morning, Morgana,” she says. “Did you sleep well?”

Morgana makes a face, says, “Sort of.”

Gwen looks sympathetic, and comes to stand closer to her, take Morgana’s hand. “Another nightmare?” she asks, biting her lip.

“I’m not sure,” Morgana sighs, “but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant dream, that’s for sure.” She gives Gwen a smile. “I’m fine, Gwen, don’t worry about me.”

Gwen smiles back at her, and Morgana closes her eyes because it’s too early for this, too early for Gwen’s soft smiles and gentle touches, the constant reminder of what Morgana wants and will never be able to have. And not because Gwen is a servant and Morgana is the ward of a king, either. She’s seen the way Arthur is around Gwen – he thinks he’s subtle, and he could maybe fool his father, maybe, but Morgana knows him – and she’s seen Gwen, too, seen more than she cares to admit.

“Morgana?”

Gwen’s concerned voice permeates Morgana’s sleepy haze, and she opens her eyes, trying for a smile.

“Sorry,” she says, “I’m just... tired,” and Gwen’s face turns sympathetic again before she pulls Morgana into a hug, tight and warm and safe. Morgana hugs her back, squeezing her eyes shut and exhaling slowly.

She’s been in love with Gwen for as long as she can remember, since Gwen was a tiny, timid wisp of a thing whom Uther introduced as, “Your maidservant, Morgana, you’re getting old enough now that you need one of your own.”

Gwen was nothing like Morgana expected. She was young, for a start, probably younger than Morgana was, with a soft, sweet face that dimpled when she smiled. And such a warm, lovely smile it was, even tempered by her obvious nervousness. Morgana couldn’t help but smile back at her, instantly charmed.

“So you’re my maidservant,” Morgana said, once Uther had left them alone, and Gwen said, “Apparently,” back, bolder than Morgana expected. She didn’t fall over herself trying to curtsey, either, and Morgana grinned at her.

It was Gwen who taught her how to use a sword, how to wield it and respect its power. It was Gwen who parried her blows without even trying and felled her to the ground, tip of the sword at the hollow of Morgana’s neck, laughing, “Do you give up, my lady?”

(If Morgana is honest, that was probably the moment she realised, eyes wide, heart pounding in her ears, unable to swallow even when the sword left her throat.)

They are friends more than they are master and servant, or at least Morgana likes to think that they are. She knows Gwen is faithfully devoted to her and she to Gwen, more so than she should be, than Uther ever intended, and Morgana thinks that surely, surely that must mean something.

~

Caerleon is dying.

Caerleon has been dying for months now, but he has never been closer to shuffling off this mortal coil than this very moment, and everyone clustered around his bed knows this. All of them are glad; some of them are positively gleeful. None of them have ever liked him much, and this is their chance to inherit the throne, and rule over all of Stormhold.

“Cenred,” Caerleon croaks, and Cenred hurries forward, grasping the king’s hand. “Where is Annis? Where is my wife?”

Cenred exchanges a look with the others. “I’m sorry, sire,” he says, “but no one’s seen or heard from her in years, sire.”

Caerleon closes his eyes, for a moment. “I have always liked you, Cenred,” he says, at length, and Cenred beams and straightens up, as if he can feel the weight of the crown on his head already. “You’re so loyal to me, and loyalty is a quality which, sadly, is not in great supply in these parts.”

Cenred beams, nods his head, says, “I have always been loyal to you, sire, always.”

Caerleon waves him back, and Cenred’s face falls a little, but he does move back, stepping back to retake his place amongst the others. Caerleon surveys the room, surveys the men who have gathered to take his kingdom from him, but his gaze pauses on the figure furthest from the bed.

“And who might you be?” he asks, head cocked, and the man straightens up.

“I am Gwaine of Orkney, sire,” he says, bowing his head slightly in deference.

Caerleon frowns. "I do not recognise that name."

Gwaine smiles a little ruefully. “You don’t know me,” he says, “but my father was a knight in your army, and he spoke so very highly of you until the day he died.”

Caerleon’s chest visibly puffs up. “Well then,” he says. “You have a place here as much as any of the rest of these fools, I suppose.”

The men shift uncomfortably, though if Caerleon were more cognizant of his surroundings, he would’ve noticed Gwaine smirking.

“Thank you, sire,” is all he says.

Caerleon waves a dismissive hand, says, “I suppose you’re all wondering when I’m going to hurry up and decide which one of you I intend to declare as my successor.”

“Of course not,” Cenred says hastily, and Cedric says, voice as smooth as ever, “Whenever you are ready, my lord, and not a moment sooner.”

“It would be nice,” Gwaine says blithely, and Caerleon laughs, a ragged ghost of his deep-bellied laugh, even as the others draw in shocked intakes of breath.

“I like you, Gwaine,” he says, “you have... spirit.”

Gwaine smiles, with not even a hint of faux modesty. Caerleon definitely likes him. “I try,” he says.

“The truth is,” Caerleon announces, “I don’t. Intend to declare any one of you as my successor, that is.” He looks round at the shocked faces, and notes with interest that Gwaine still looks amused. “None of you deserve my throne, and I’d rather die than willingly hand it over to one of you fools.” He laughs, but it quickly devolves into a hacking cough, which doesn’t stop for a few minutes. “Equally, however, I do not want to leave my kingdom in turmoil, not after all the work I’ve put in. So what I propose is this.”

Caerlon pulls the Power of Stormhold off from around his neck, caressing it lightly. “I cut this stone off the dead body of the last monarch,” he says, smirking at the memory of Vivienne, poor, pathetic Vivienne, “and I suppose I could ask you to do the same, but that would be no fun.”

Bringing his arm back, Caerleon hurls the stone with the remaining vestiges of his strength. The others watch, transfixed, as it hurtles across the room, out of the window and into the night.

“Whosoever is first to find the stone will inherit the kingdom,” he croaks, and then his whole body goes limp and his head rolls back and he dies.

“Took him long enough,” Gwaine mutters and, in the flurry of people arguing and clamouring to leave, disappears.

~

At that very moment, just over the wall which separates the land of magic from the land of the mundane, Morgana and Gwen are outside the castle.

Gaius’s sleeping draughts aren’t really helping with Morgana’s nightmares – if Morgana’s honest, brutally, unflinching honest, she thinks the draughts have made them worse – and Gwen suggested they go for a late night walk.

“Perhaps the fresh air will help to clear your head,” she said with a hopeful smile. “It can’t hurt, at least, can it?”

Morgana doesn’t share her hope, is too weary of her night time affliction by now to expect anything else when she lies down for the night, but it never takes long for the castle to start stifling her, and it’s not like Gwen’s company, her undivided attention, is ever something Morgana can turn down.

And there’s something electric about the air tonight, something thrilling about being out in the dark with no one but Gwen at her side, arm interlinked with Morgana’s. She’s enjoying it maybe a little too much, she thinks, leaning into Gwen a little more than is strictly necessary, or advisable, but she can’t help it.

Abruptly, Gwen stops, and Morgana’s about to protest when Gwen whispers, a little choked, “Morgana. Look.”

And Morgana does.

At first she thinks the sky is burning, set alight by something bright and fierce, but then she looks closer.

“It’s a star,” she breathes, “it’s a falling star,” and Gwen just nods, her eyes so wide. They watch it fall until it dips beneath the horizon, out of view, and keep staring at the sky for a few moments longer, unable to tear their gaze away.

“Wow,” Morgana breathes, her eyes wide. “That was beautiful.” Gwen makes a noise of agreement, equally spellbound. “I wonder where it fell.”

“Somewhere on the other side of the wall, it looked like,” Gwen replies, looking wistful. “I wish I could see it up close. I bet it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”

Morgana slants her a look, says, “Why can’t you?”

“Morgana,” Gwen sighs, and Morgana already knows what she’s going to say, doesn’t know why she bothered pushing it, she’s had this conversation a hundred times before, “nobody crosses the wall. It’s impossible.”

She’s heard the stories, of course, of people who’ve tried to climb the wall or jump over it, only to be thrown down unceremoniously before they can even reach the top. She’s heard the stories, everyone has, they’re told to every curious child who grows up asking about the wall, but none of them have ever had quite the intended effect on her.

“Nothing is impossible,” Morgana insists. “It just means nobody’s tried hard enough before. Or if they have, they’ve done the clever thing and never come back. I would bet all the jewels in the kingdom that that’s where Elyan ended up.”

Gwen flinches, and Morgana is instantly contrite. Gwen’s brother ran away a few years ago when they were still teenagers, and no one has seen or heard from him since. Gwen stopped mentioning him a while ago, but Morgana knows she misses him horribly, especially since Tom’s death. Morgana hasn’t quite been able to forgive Uther for that, even though she knows it’s not for her to do so, anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Morgana says, quietly. “That was uncalled for. But Gwen, there has to be a way over it, there just has to be.”

“Morgana,” Gwen says, more gently this time, but Morgana jumps to her feet, unable to stand the look on Gwen’s face.

“I’ll prove it to you,” Morgana says, and this is stupid, she knows it’s stupid, but she doesn’t care. “I’ll cross the wall and bring you back the star and you’ll see, you’ll see.” Gwen laughs, like she doesn’t believe her, like she thinks Morgana is joking, or something, and Morgana’s mouth tightens. “I will,” she promises. “I’ll bring it back for you.”

Gwen looks at her, wondering, and Morgana wonders how she can’t know how much Morgana adores her. This’ll prove it to her, she thinks. Morgana will bring back the star and Gwen will see and she’ll fall madly in love with Morgana and they’ll live happily ever after and stuff. That’s how this sort of thing works, she’s pretty sure.

“Okay,” Gwen says quietly, and Morgana doesn’t think she really believes her, but Gwen trusts her, will always trust her, and that’s enough.

Gwen helps her pack a bag, stuffs it full of things Morgana would never think to put in it, like a spare change of clothes and shoes and other highly sensible things. She finds Morgana’s cloak for her and helps her into it, worries that it’s not warm enough and that Morgana will catch her death.

“Gwen,” Morgana interrupts, taking both of Gwen’s hands in hers, “I’ll be fine. Really. Don’t worry about me.”

Gwen smiles at her, her sweet, lovely, beautiful smile, but it doesn’t erase the look of concern on her face. “Be careful,” she warns, and Morgana laughs, says, “Oh, Gwen, I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me,” and leans down to kiss her forehead.

She lingers there for longer than she means to, longer than she really should, and then turns away to leave.

~

Gwaine reappears just beyond the castle walls; the powder he got was only intended for short distance travel, yes, but he didn’t realise it’d be that short distance. Thankfully, it’s well past dark, and there’s no one around to be suspicious of his sudden presence.

“Alice, you old crone,” Gwaine mutters, righting himself. He hopes the other thing she sold him works better than the powder, at least. Glancing around to check the coast is clear, Gwaine takes it out, rubbing gently at the murky glass with a thumb.

Slowly, the glass clears, a face swimming into view; hard, familiar eyes and a sharp nose framed by long blonde curls. Success.

“Morgause,” Gwaine says cheerfully, “you look younger every time I see you.”

Morgause rolls her eyes. “Time is a fickle mistress, Gwaine,” she says, “and I’m afraid I don’t have an awful lot of it at the moment, so if you could tell me what happened with the maximum expediency, I’d be much obliged.” She pauses, swallowing a little. “I assume the old fool is finally dead?”

A grin spreads across Gwaine’s face, and he nods. “You have no idea how gratifying it was to watch.”

Morgause’s smile turns rueful. “Oh, I think I do,” she says. “He killed my family too, remember?” Gwaine’s eyes go wide and he ducks his head, mutters his apologies. Morgause waves them away, unflustered as she always is. “So who did he name as his successor?”

“Nobody,” Gwaine says, a little gleeful, remembering the looks on the others’ faces at Caerleon’s announcement. “He said we were all unworthy dogs and then he threw the Power of Stormhold out of the window and said the first to claim it would also claim the throne.”

Morgause leans forward, interest sparking in her eyes. “I’m assuming,” she says slyly, “that this extends beyond the occupants of the room, yes?”

Gwaine nods. “He didn’t specify. Magic is very picky about that sort of thing.”

Morgause grins. “Perfect,” she says, “this is perfect.”

Gwaine grins back at her; her enthusiasm is infectious. “Indeed it is. But if that’s all,” he says, “I have to be getting back to my ship now. My captain’s expecting me.”

Morgause arches an eyebrow, and she looks like she wants to ask, Gwaine knows she wants to ask, but all she says is, “Really.”

Gwaine shrugs, but he can’t hide his grin. “Yes,” he says. “Really.”

“That’s a little more permanent than just wherever will put up with you,” Morgause observes, and Gwaine just smiles a little wider.

“Yeah,” he says, “it is. Good luck with finding the stone, by the way. You have the best chance out of any of them, since you’re furthest from the castle.” He points a finger at her, says with utter seriousness, “I’m rooting for you, you know. You’re the best thing for Stormhold, for all of us.”

Morgause laughs, says, “You really have changed. What happened to the Gwaine I knew who wouldn’t piss on a noble if they were on fire, who swore he’d see them all hang before he died?”

Gwaine smiles. “I found one worth dying for,” is all he says, before he gives her a mock salute and rubs at the glass again, watching it return to its original cloudy state.

When he looks up, all the breath is promptly sucked out of his lungs.

“No,” he whispers, staring up at the sky, “no,” and then he starts grinning, laughing, unable to hold it in.

“A king dies and a star falls,” Gwaine says, shaking his head. “It’s like something out of a fairytale.”

~

It’s laughably easy for Morgana to sneak out of the castle itself; it’s like the cloak renders her invisible to the guards, who don’t even look up as she passes them. Once she’s through the gate, however, she has to get through the surrounding villages, a good few hours’ walk, and there are all manner of bandits and rogues who could do her harm on the way.

Straightening herself up, determined, Morgana strides on, keeping to the shadows as much as possible so as not to attract attention. Somehow, through luck, or sheer force of will, or something, she manages to get through the villages unmolested, and before long the wall is looming up in front of her, and Morgana stops abruptly.

It seems suddenly huge and insurmountable, even though it must hardly be higher than her chest. For a moment, just a moment, she wonders why she is doing this, why she is pitting herself against powerful, ancient magic, power the likes of which even Camelot’s worst sorcerers could only ever dream of wielding.

And then Morgana thinks, Gwen, and, the star, and inhales deeply. She holds the breath in her lungs for a beat, another, another, and then she charges at the wall and raises her hands above her head and-

And sails right over it without encountering any resistance at all.

Morgana lands in a crouch, hands braced on the ground, knees tucked up into her chest. She’s breathing heavily, but not from exertion; it was a short run and a shorter drop, but her heart is pounding like she ran right around Camelot’s borders, like she cut down enemy after enemy in her path.

She straightens up, rising slowly to her feet, and looks around. There’s a stretch of grass, and then a clump of trees, and Morgana has no idea where she’s going except vaguely in front, to the left a little and then straight on ’til stardust.

Well then, she thinks, dusting herself off briskly, may as well get on with it.

Morgana walks through the woods – which look basically the same as the woods back in Camelot; she’s sort of disappointed, and she isn’t sure exactly what she had expected – sort of aimlessly, still unsure exactly where she’s going.

She’ll get there, she knows, her determination edged only slightly with desperation. She will.

“You’re lost,” comes a voice, floating out from somewhere beyond the trees, “aren’t you?”

Morgana whips around, eyes narrowing. “Who’s there?” she demands. “Show yourself!”

She waits, impatiently, her arms folded across her chest, until a hooded figure emerges from the thicket, stopping in front of her. The figure shakes off the hood, revealing a pale face, messy dark hair, a warm smile.

“I am Mordred, a druid separated from the rest of my kin,” he says. “And you are?”

“Morgana. I’m... not entirely sure where I’m going,” she admits, after a minute. “I’m not from here.”

Mordred gives her an assessing once-over, then says, his voice dry, “I can see that. Where are you headed, Morgana? Perhaps I could help you on your way.”

“East, I think, in search of the fallen star,” Morgana says, and all the warmth promptly drains out of Mordred’s face.

“Are you really,” he says. “You’re best just turning around and leaving now, then.”

“I beg your pardon,” Morgana says, anger flaring, but Mordred is already turning away from her, moving back towards the trees. “Won’t you help me find it?”

“I will not help not help you destroy an innocent star,” he spits, whirling on her, and Morgana flinches, taken back.

“I don’t want to destroy it,” she says. “That is the last thing I want.”

“Then what do you want, sorceress?” he demands. “Tell me.”

“I am not a sorceress,” Morgana grits out, offended, “I am the ward of King Uther Pendragon of Camelot.”

Mordred’s eyes go wide. “Camelot,” he murmurs, “The wall,” and Morgana sighs.

“Yes,” she says, “the other side of the wall, that’s where I’m from. I watched the star fall and knew I had to follow it, I knew I had to come here. And with or without your help, I will find it.”

Mordred stares at her hard for a second, two, and then he says, “I will help you.”

Morgana exhales sharply. “Good,” she says, “because I really am horribly lost.”

Mordred smiles at her. “First,” he says, “you should eat. You need to build up your strength for the coming journey.”

“I don’t need-” Morgana starts, exasperated, but Mordred’s already hurrying off and Morgana really doesn’t have any choice but to follow him. “You’re going to get me even more lost, you know,” she calls after him. “You’re going too quickly!”

“You’re going too slowly,” Mordred calls back, a tease in his voice, and Morgana just rolls her eyes.

~

“A fallen star,” Grunhilda breathes, “in Stormhold.”

“Yes,” Sophia says thoughtfully. “The first in longer than we would care to remember."

Grunhilda nods. Sophia is the only remaining Sidhe in existence, and Grunhilda her ever-loyal servant; the others died out years and years and years ago. It may have been decades, or centuries, or maybe even millennia, Grunhilda doesn’t know, and doesn’t really want to know.

“Of course,” she says hastily. “We must move quickly, then, to retrieve it before it is discovered before anyone else. The druids are likely to stumble across it before long, if left to their own devices.”

Sophia nods distastefully. “Indeed. We cannot afford to waste any time. Where are the Babylon candles?”

“Ah,” Grunhilda says, and hurries to the supply cupboard. She roots around inside it, hunting for the candle box. When she opens it up, though, all that is left is a burnt-down stump, not even enough for one journey. Cursing, she shoves the box aside. "What will we do now?" she demands, frustrated.

“You must travel on foot,” Sophia says, “and use other methods of locating the star. You must not fail, Grunhilda.”

“I will not,” she says, determined, “I will not,” and finishes preparing to leave.

~

Mordred hands Morgana a bowl and smiles at her warmly. “So what’s Camelot like?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious about it.

Morgana takes the bowl a little warily. It appears to have some kind of gruel in it, which makes a charming squelching noise when she pokes at it with the spoon. Not wanting to be rude, she takes a tentative bite, but thankfully it tastes much better than it looks, and she actually is getting a little hungry.

“It’s... fine,” she says, unsure exactly what Mordred wants to know. “Uther is a fair king. People don’t starve if he can help it, and there hasn’t been a major war in years.”

Mordred arches his eyebrows. “A fair king?” he repeats. “That’s not what I’ve heard. I hear he butchers people like me for no reason at all.”

“He has his reasons,” Morgana argues, because Uther has always been kind to her, like an actual father, and she can’t help but defend him against his detractors. “Magic is- magic is dangerous.” She thinks of Ygraine, who died shortly before Uther took her in as his ward, and shivers. “It can be used for great evil.”

“And for far greater good,” Mordred says, a clear challenge in his voice. “Uther doesn’t exactly discriminate when it comes to the pyre.”

“He can be a little hasty in his dismissal of them, yes,” Morgana concedes, “but he always has his reasons for doing so. It’s for the good of the kingdom.”

“Of course it is,” Mordred says wearily. He eyes her empty bowl, says, “Would you like some more?”

Morgana shakes her head, setting the bowl down, away from her. “I should go, actually,” she says. “I have lingered here too long.”

Mordred nods. “Okay,” he says. “Then I will help you find your way to the star you seek, as I promised.”

He takes her sack cloth and puts in some bread and a little more water to replenish what she’s already managed to drink, as well as a coiled silver chain and some coin. Then he produces a candle, seemingly from nowhere, and his eyes turn serious.

“This is a Babylon candle,” Mordred explains. “When it is lit, think of the thing you desire most in the world and it will take you to it. And, well, here,” he adds, holding out a small purple flower.

“This is a flower,” Morgana says slowly.

“Yes,” Mordred says, still holding it out, so Morgana takes it, shaking her head a little.

“Is the flower going to help?” she asks, and Mordred chuckles, says, “The flower might save your life, actually,” which just makes Morgana snort.

“Right,” she says, “okay,” and pins it to her dress. It’s rather pretty, at least. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Mordred smiles at her. “You’re welcome,” he says. “I hope we cross paths again, Morgana le Fay.”

Morgana blinks, confused, but before she can correct him he’s gone, vanished into the darkness. She shakes her head, bemused, and suddenly realises he managed to somehow the light the candle he gave her in the process of disappearing.

Think of the thing you desire most in the world, Mordred said, and it will take you there, and Morgana doesn’t even know what that is, honestly, but she knows she loves Gwen more than anything at all, wants more than anything for Gwen to love her back just as much, and the star is going to get her that, the star is going to-

Suddenly Morgana feels herself being yanked through the air, as if on invisible strings, so quickly her eyes squeeze shut of their own accord. She opens her mouth to scream, to yell, to something, but the sound is ripped from her, ripped away from her, lost in the violent wind circling her body.

And then, as abruptly as she was taken, Morgana is released, deposited unceremoniously on the ground, standing on shaky legs.

When she can open her eyes again, she’s in the middle of what appears to be a ginormous crater, the burnt-down stump of the candle still clutched tightly in her hand. Glancing around, she can’t see anything which obviously looks like a star – and what do stars even look like, Morgana wonders, it’s not like she’s ever seen one before – but there’s a woman curled up on the ground in front of her, bright bright hair spilling out over shining skin, a simple white shift stained with dirt. She seems to be unconscious, but when Morgana steps cautiously forward her eyes fly open and she sits bolt upright, her face going wild.

Her gaze lands on Morgana. “Who are you?” she demands, and Morgana’s eyes narrow.

“You’re the one lying in the middle of a crater,” she points out, “who are you?”

“My name’s Elena,” the woman says, still eyeing her warily. “And you’re the one who appeared out of nowhere in the middle of a crater, I should point out.”

“My name’s Morgana,” Morgana says, because she supposes that’s fair enough. “I’m looking for the star that fell, presumably somewhere around here, from the state of things. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it, have you?”

Elena blinks at her. “Are you serious,” she says after a minute, her voice entirely flat.

“Deadly,” Morgana snaps, because she isn’t used to people not being sickeningly nice to her, let alone being outright rude. “If you can’t help me, I’ll just-”

“I’m the star,” Elena interrupts, looking disbelieving. “How did you not know that?”

Morgana stares down at her for a moment, open-mouthed. “But you’re human,” she says. “Or you look human, at least.”

“Well of course I do,” Elena retorts, “don’t you know what stars look like?”

“No,” Morgana says, slowly. “Why would I know that?”

“You’re a sorceress, aren’t you?” Elena says bluntly. “That’s why you have the Babylon candle.”

Morgana flinches. “I am not,” she says. “It was given to me. By a- a friend.”

Elena’s eyebrows go up. “Right,” she says, drawing it out, but doesn’t say anything else. She moves like she’s going to get up, but she’s barely on her feet before she’s on the ground again, hissing out through her teeth. She tries to struggle up again, with little more success than before.

“Are you okay?” Morgana asks, despite the fact that it’s fairly obvious she isn’t. She’s at least capable of basic politeness, even if this wretch isn’t. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Elena says through gritted teeth, “I’m fine.”

It’s Morgana’s turn to raise her eyebrows, make a sceptical noise in her throat. Elena just mutters something incomprehensible under her breath and pushes herself into a kneeling position. Very, very deliberately, she bends her right leg and pushes off it until she’s standing, swaying only a little unsteadily on her feet.

Elena turns a – wow, kind of blinding – grin on Morgana, face shining with triumph, and then she straightens out her left leg and promptly collapses to the ground, clutching her ankle and howling with pain.

“I think your ankle might be broken,” Morgana observes, head cocked. “Or badly sprained, at the very least.”

Elena makes a noise like wow, really and Morgana rolls her eyes, squatting so she’s level with Elena. Her ankle’s definitely swollen, bruising purple and green, but when Morgana examines it more closely she can’t see any bones poking out of the skin or any other signs of a fracture, like Gwen taught her to look for.

Morgana inhales sharply and wishes, suddenly, fervently, that Gwen were here, that she’d taken her with her. Gwen would know how to deal with this, could be kind and polite to Elena and do all the things Morgana’s never been good at.

“Just a bad sprain, I think,” Morgana says, after a minute. “You should be fine to walk on it.”

“It hurts,” Elena says, tiny and quiet. She isn’t looking at Morgana, and she’s biting her lip hard, worrying it between her teeth.

“I know,” Morgana says, surprised by the softness of her own voice. “Here,” she says, a little firmer, and holds out her hand to Elena. Elena takes it, after a moment’s hesitation, and Morgana straightens up, pulling Elena up with her as gently as she can manage.

She doesn’t let go when they’re both standing, waits for Elena to steady herself, lowering her weight gingerly onto her left leg, wincing and pulling back and trying again, more determined to succeed this time. Her grip tightens on Morgana’s hand when she bites back a whimper, and Morgana is struck by how warm her hand is, even in the cold night air.

“Okay,” Elena says, her breath tickling Morgana’s face, and it’s only then that Morgana realises how close together they’re standing. Elena’s taller than her, Morgana realises, sort of distantly, though not by much. “I think I’m okay, you can let go now. Thank you.”

Morgana steps back slowly, letting Elena’s hand fall out of her grip as she does so. “You’re welcome,” she says, uncharacteristically awkward, and her gaze falls on the necklace swinging at Elena’s neck. It’s – familiar, Morgana thinks, even though she’s certain she’s never seen it before in her life, red and regal and glittering in the light of the moon. “What’s that?”

“What?” Elena says, and looks down. “Oh. Some fool threw it at me; it knocked me right out of the sky.” She glares down at it, mouth pursed in distaste. “But it’s pretty enough, I suppose, so I decided I may as well keep it.”

“Can I-” Morgana steps forward again, reaches out to it. The necklace is warm to the touch, just like Elena, and glows bright and brilliant when Morgana makes contact with it. She withdraws her hand, startled, and the glow fades.

“Wow,” Elena draws out, her head cocked. “Is it supposed to do that?” Morgana just shakes her head, unable to verbalise her confusion quite yet, and Elena makes a thoughtful noise. “Maybe it’s a sorceress thing.”

That snaps Morgana right out of whatever haze descended on her, and she snaps, “I’m not a sorceress,” as she steps back.

“What are you, then?” Elena asks, more curious than accusatory, but Morgana bristles anyway.

“I’m- human,” she gets out, because what else would she be, really? “I’m from Camelot.”

Elena’s eyebrows go up. “Camelot? Over the wall? You’re a little far from home, then. What are you doing in Stormhold?”

“I was looking for the star- you,” Morgana amends. “I had to... prove something to someone.”

“That’s rather vague,” Elena comments, and Morgana shoots back, “That’s rather nosy,” and Elena grins, not quite as blinding before but still so bright. Like starlight, Morgana thinks, and then shakes her head hard because of course, Elena’s a star.

“Fair enough,” Elena says. “What were you planning on doing with me when you found me, then?”

“Well,” Morgana says, because she hadn’t exactly considered the possibility that the star would be a person. This slightly complicates her plan. “I don’t know. I was supposed to bring you back to show Gwen that I got over the wall, but I don’t suppose-” She breaks off, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“No,” Elena says, shaking her head vehemently. “No, no, I am not going anywhere with you, you’ll have to drag me out of here first.”

Morgana just looks at her. Elena’s eyes go wide. Morgana smiles, very slowly, and grabs Elena around the waist to throw her over her shoulder.

~

They walk through the woods like that for a while. Elena’s shrieking protests die down to a muted grumble when it becomes quickly apparent that Morgana isn’t planning on letting her down any time soon.

But, Morgana realises, as she shifts Elena’s weight around on her aching shoulders, she may actually have to sooner than she intended to. Elena’s heavier than she looks, and Morgana’s not exactly used to lifting and carrying, and Morgana has to take her all the way back to Camelot. It’s sort of a daunting prospect.

When they reach a clearing, Morgana heads straight for the nearest tree and dumps Elena unceremoniously at the foot of it. Elena glares up at her while she starts digging through her bag.

“What are you doing?” Elena demands, folding her arms across her – ample, Morgana can’t help but notice – chest.

“Finding something to tie you up with,” Morgana says absently, and then, “Aha,” when her hands close around the chain Mordred gave her. She wonders, briefly, if he intended it for this purpose, and shivers.

“I’m not exactly going anywhere,” Elena points out, gesturing at her ankle, “you don’t have to tie me up.”

“No,” Morgana concedes, “but I’d be altogether more comfortable if you were. Now hold still.”

Predictably, Elena doesn’t; she struggles in Morgana’s grip as she attempts to loop the rope around Elena’s wrists, and Morgana has to pin her down with her knees on either side of Elena’s body. Triumphant, Morgana lets go of Elena’s hands as she ties the rope around them. Elena promptly lunges away as if in an attempt to escape, but she succeeds only in hitting Morgana in the face.

“Sorry,” Elena says, not sounding particularly apologetic. Morgana glares at her, her cheek smarting where Elena’s fists made contact, and pulls the chain around even tighter. “Ow!”

“Sorry,” Morgana says, in much the same tone Elena had used, and lets the two ends of the chain join themselves together. “Now come on, we have to keep moving.”

“Sprained ankle, remember?” Elena grumbles, but doesn’t resist – much – when Morgana tugs her up by the chain. She even walks, stumbling, tripping often, when Morgana starts walking, but Morgana supposes that’s more out of a healthy respect for not falling flat on her face on a forest floor. “How do you even know where you’re going, by the way? It’s not like you’re from here.”

Morgana shrugs. Somehow she just knows they’re going the right way, she can’t explain it. Maybe it’s her love for Gwen leading her back, she thinks, and cringes instantly, pushing the thought away.

“So tell me about this Gwen, then,” Elena says, once they’re out of the clearing and back into the thick of the woods. “The person you’re taking me back to.”

Morgana glances back at her, distracted. “She’s my... friend,” she says, unsure exactly how to describe Gwen. They are friends, Morgana thinks, but it’s more complicated than that.

Elena makes a harrumphing noise. “If she’s anything like you, that isn’t reassuring.”

“She’s lovely,” Morgana shoots back, furious, because she is, and Morgana won’t have this rude, horrible little woman maligning her. “She’s kind, so kind, even to people who treat her like dirt, but she has a heart of steel and the courage of ten thousand men. She’s- she’s wonderful,” Morgana finishes quickly, looking away.

“She sounds like it,” Elena offers, after a minute. “I suppose she wouldn’t be the worst person in the world to be bestowed upon like some kind of-” Her eyes widen and she inhales sharply. “Oh. Oh. It is! You want to give me to this woman so you can woo her, that’s what this is.”

“No! Well, maybe,” Morgana relents, after a disbelieving look from Elena.

“I’m an engagement gift,” Elena says to herself, and then she shakes her head hard. “Wow. That’s... wow. What’s she getting you in return?”

“Nothing,” Morgana says, suddenly uncomfortable. “She doesn’t know that it’s- that you’re- well. You’re supposed to be a gesture of my love.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Morgana feels stupid. She doesn’t do grand gestures, and even if she did, Gwen’s not exactly the type to appreciate them. Not that Gwen’s simple, far from it, but she’s a serving girl, she’s not used to such displays.

Elena stares at her for a minute, and then she says, drawing it out, “Wow. Who is this woman, anyway, some kind of princess?”

“She’s my maidservant,” Morgana says, and abruptly quickens her pace so Elena has to stumble after her.

~

Grunhilda moves quickly, but when she reaches the crater where the star is supposed to have fallen – and had, quite evidently – it is empty. Grunhilda tips her head back to howl at the sky, cursing every star inlaid in its canvas.

She is not giving up so easily, however. Someone else must’ve found the star, she knows, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to discern where they’ve gone. Squeezing her eyes shut, she murmurs a spell, focusing on the centre of the crater.

“A woman,” she murmurs, at length, “from... over the wall,” and then she spins around, her eyes flying open. “They went that way.”

Her first instinct is to head straight after them, but that isn’t necessarily the wisest decision. The star did not exactly go willingly with the woman, and their progress is slow. The star is injured, and the woman is tired, and Grunhilda can tell they are not very far away. She smiles, slow and delighted. She can use this, lure the star into a trap so innocuous that her heart will be singing before Grunhilda cuts it out of her body.

“Now,” Grunhilda says briskly, rubbing her hands together, “if I were a tired, injured traveller, what would I stop for?”

~

Night falls not long after, and Morgana and Elena stop to make camp. Morgana rolls out her sleeping mat and wishes Gwen had thought to pack her a spare; it feels a bit cruel to make Elena lie on the cold, hard ground, but it’s not like they’ll both fit on it.

As she lies down, Morgana ties the other end of the chain around one of her own wrists, balls the end of it up in her fist. Elena rolls her eyes a little, but doesn’t say anything, just lies down on the ground as far enough away from Morgana as the length of the chain she’s afforded will let her.

Morgana closes her eyes, preparing herself to battle through another night of nightmares. It may be worth her staying awake to keep watch, make sure they aren’t set upon while they sleep by bandits, or worse, but Morgana is just so very tired, and even if the only rest she gets is tormented, it’s better than no rest at all.

(Besides, she doesn’t trust Elena nearly enough to return the favour, and not just fall asleep, or purposefully get them captured, or something. Morgana’s a fairly light sleeper, has to be with the nightmares; they’ll probably be fine.)

“So this Gwen,” Elena says, after a few minutes of silence. “She’s your servant?”

“And my best friend,” Morgana says, because it’s true.

“But she’s your servant,” Elena says, “first and foremost. She is bound to you, must obey you in all ways, and you have power over her.”

Morgana doesn’t like the tone of Elena’s voice, or what she seems to be implying. “Yes,” she says, “but she is also my best friend. I care about her deeply. I would never harm her, nor let any harm come to her that was in my power to prevent.”

Elena’s quiet for a little bit longer, as if mulling this over in her head. “But she’s still your servant,” she says quietly, and Morgana snaps, “What does it matter?”

Her voice cracks, and instead of sounding indignant she just sounds kind of sad. She squeezes her eyes shut, brings up an image of Gwen in her mind, lovely, kind, beautiful Gwen.

“I love her,” she whispers.

“I’m sure you do,” Elena says, her voice calm and measured, and Morgana doesn’t know why it makes her feel worse. “Good night, Morgana.”

“Good night,” Morgana replies automatically, and settles in to sleep.

She wakes slowly, eyes fluttering, as the first light of dawn streams through the trees. She does not wake screaming or crying, images of Gwen’s dead body, or Camelot razed to the ground, burned onto the backs of her eyelids. She cannot even recall dreaming at all, and has to laugh. It’s been years, years, since she had a truly restful night’s sleep. She isn’t sure how to feel about this, beyond the initial surge of relief.

Stretching, Morgana sits up and looks over at Elena, still asleep. She looks really peaceful, and Morgana almost doesn’t want to wake her, but Morgana isn’t getting back to sleep any time soon and they may as well get an early start.

“Elena,” Morgana says, shaking her by the shoulders, “wake up.”

Elena makes a vague grumbling noise and turns over, away from Morgana. Morgana narrows her eyes, putting her hands on her hips.

“Elena,” she says sternly

Elena makes the grumbling noise again, only louder this time. After a few seconds, she turns back over, glaring up at Morgana.

“You,” she says, “are a cruel, horrible woman. The sun has only just risen!”

“Well I’ve been awake for ages,” Morgana lies. “Now come on, we’ve got miles to go before we’re home.”

Elena sits up reluctantly, still glaring. “It’s your home,” she mutters, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s not mine.”

“Well, it’s going to be,” Morgana says, irritated. “Honestly, you’re such a child.”

“You’re such an arsehole!” Elena retorts, but she gets up when Morgana yanks on her chain and starts walking.

~

“Okay, I’m done,” Elena announces abruptly, and lurches over to a tree, yanking Morgana along with her when she collapses against it. She rubs at her sprained ankle, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh, oh that feels good.”

“What are you doing?” Morgana demands, yanking on the chain. Elena lurches upwards and promptly collapses back down on the ground again, shooting a glare in Morgana’s direction. “We agreed to stop when we reached the next town.”

“Morgana,” Elena says heavily, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m exhausted. We’ve been walking for hours and my ankle is killing me and I slept really, really badly and it’s the middle of the day, I just want to sleep.”

“Fine,” Morgana says, because now that she’s looking, properly looking, Elena looks about five minutes from passing out from exhaustion. She feels kind of incredibly guilty for not noticing before; Gwen would’ve noticed. “You can rest, and I’ll find us some food. Don’t go anywhere.”

“There goes my cunning plan to limp away while your back is turned,” comes Elena’s dry voice from behind her as Morgana turns to leave. Morgana rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

She walks on for a bit more until she comes across what looks like a market, stalls set up in haphazard rows. It looks like any you’d come across in the villages bordering the castle back home, Morgana thinks, and it sounds like it too, loud and cacophonous.

The market is bustling with people when Morgana reaches it, and she has to push through the crowd and crane her neck around before she finds something which looks like a food stall. She approaches, peering at the goods on the table, and is relieved when they look similar enough to the things that she knows. She buys a loaf of bread with some of the money Mordred gave her, and then starts to head back to where she left Elena.

The only problem is, she realises, after she’s been wandering around for what feels like hours, she has no idea where that is. Retracing her steps didn’t help; it just got her more lost, since every clump of trees looks just like every other clump of trees and Morgana can’t be sure if she turned right or left or went straight on at the one with the bark that looked kind of like Arthur’s face.

“Fantastic,” she mutters, glancing around herself at her surroundings. She makes the executive decision to turn left and keeps walking determinedly on, sure that if she just keeps walking she’ll have to stumble across Elena, somehow, somehow.

And... wait. That clump of trees to the right does look markedly familiar, and not in the way which means she’s just walked past it four score and twenty times.

“Elena?” Morgana calls, daring to hope. She listens hard, ears pricked, and then- there, yes, a sound like footsteps crunching on leaves, there, just behind her.

Morgana whirls on her heel, ready to chastise Elena for wandering off, and promptly comes face to face with a woman who is very definitely not Elena, despite the blonde hair curling to her shoulders. If it weren’t obvious from her face, the shiny silver sword she’s clutching with both hands would be a pretty big clue.

“Filthy sneak,” the woman hisses, her eyes narrowed as she points the sword at Morgana. Morgana swallows hard and tries not to flinch. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

“I’m sorry,” Morgana says, shaking her head as much as she dares with the sharp of the blade so close to her neck. “I didn’t mean to trespass, I’m just lost.”

“A likely story,” the woman snorts. She looks Morgana over, assessing. “Are you one of Cenred’s? He does like them pretty.”

Morgana’s eyes narrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she bites out, “but I don’t appreciate the implication.”

The woman’s eyebrows go up on her forehead. “Well then, if you’re not a spy, what are you doing here?”

“I told you, I’m lost,” Morgana says, irritated. “I left my friend somewhere around here to rest while I got some food from the market and I can’t find my way back to her.”

“Really,” the woman says.

“Really,” Morgana insists. “I’m not- from here, everything just looks the same to me.”

The woman stares at her, her gaze hard and penetrating, and then she says, “I don’t believe you,” and pushes out a hand, muttering what can only be a spell to hurt Morgana in some way.

Morgana flinches instinctively but before she can even blink, something- something happens. She feels a rush of what can only be described as pure, unbridled power, surging through her veins, surging up through her, and it rushes out of her and knocks the woman to the ground.

She stares up at Morgana, mouth open, and Morgana can only imagine that her shock is reflected on her own face.

“You’re a sorceress,” the woman says, her voice soft, almost wondering, and Morgana shakes her head hard because she’s not, she’s not-

“You are,” the woman says, stepping forward towards her. Morgana takes a step back. “Don’t be scared,” the woman soothes her, “you have a powerful, powerful gift.”

Morgana swallows, can’t dislodge the lump in her throat. “I can’t,” she says, fear and panic bubbling in her chest, “I can’t.”

“You’re from Camelot, aren’t you,” the woman says, “from over the wall.” Morgana nods, and the woman makes a disgusted sound, shaking her head, muttering, “Of course.” She looks at Morgana, something soft in her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before, but I’m not in a position to trust many people.” She holds out a hand to Morgana. “My name is Morgause.”

“Morgana,” she says, taking it, and Morgause’s face flickers, something like pain crossing it for just a second, before it’s gone.

“Pleasure to meet you, Morgana,” she says. “Now, why don’t you tell me what a human is doing all the way over the wall in Stormhold while we find your friend.”

She offers Morgana a smile, and Morgana smiles back, the panic easing in her chest, and they set off.

“I had... something to prove,” Morgana says, wondering how much is safe for her to reveal. She doesn’t know this woman, after all, even though there is something about Morgause that feels sort of comfortable, sort of safe, in a way Morgana can’t quite describe, can’t rationalise given that they’ve only just met.

Morgause looks at her, and Morgause nods like she understands, and Morgana suddenly can’t swallow against the lump in her throat. She finds herself telling Morgause everything – about Gwen, about seeing the star fall, about needing to break out of the walls which’ve constrained her for as long as she can remember, about finding Elena.

“Your friend is a fallen star?” Morgause says, her eyes going wide. “We must find her as soon as possible. No star is safe in Stormhold.”

“What do you mean?” Morgana asks, bewildered, but Morgause only shakes her head, whistling sharply through her teeth. A horse trots out from behind the trees and she mounts it, holding an arm out to Morgana.

Without even thinking about it, Morgana takes it.

~

The Caspartine picks Gwaine up a few miles out of the main city. He’s been wandering the fields on the outskirts for a little while, waiting patiently for them to catch up. (He’d never admit it aloud, but he was worried, just a little bit, in the darkness of the night when the loneliness crept up on him, that they wouldn’t come back for him.)

“Took you long enough,” he says cheerfully, once they’ve hauled him aboard.

“Sorry,” Percival says, grinning at him, “we were getting used to the peace and quiet, weren’t sure we wanted to get you back.”

Gwaine makes a mock-injured face, says, “But Percy, I thought we had something special, you and I. I and you.”

Percy just laughs at him, shaking his head. “Captain wants to see you,” he tells Gwaine, and Gwaine’s face breaks into a grin.

“Good,” he says, “I was wanting a word.”

With a mock salute, he turns on his heel and heads for the captain’s quarters. He passes Elyan on the way, yells, “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your own world by now?” and gets a middle finger for his trouble.

And then he runs into Merlin – quite literally; Merlin turns abruptly out of the medical room and straight into Gwaine’s chest – and grabs him by the shoulders, steadying him with a laugh.

“Sorry,” Merlin apologises instinctively, and then he freezes, looking up very, very slowly. His face nearly splits in half with his grin, and he says, “Gwaine!” sounding more overjoyed than anyone really has a right to be to see him, of all people, and tackles him into a hug. “I thought you were never coming back.”

“I was away for just over a week, Merlin,” Gwaine reminds him, but he hugs him back just as tightly, presses a kiss to his forehead.

Merlin snorts, pulling back a little to glare at him. “That is more than enough time for you to run away, as you have proven in the past.”

Gwaine wants to say I was a fool for ever leaving and never again, not ever but the words won’t make it past his throat. He thinks Merlin hears them anyway, through his magic, maybe, or perhaps he just knows Gwaine better than anyone else alive, even Morgause.

Merlin relaxes, his smile returning. “It’s also long enough to miss you,” he says, and kisses Gwaine, soft and deep. Percival wolf-whistles behind them, but otherwise, nobody really pays attention to them; they’re all sort of used to Gwaine and Merlin and Gwaine&Merlin by now.

“I missed you, too,” Gwaine says when he eventually lets Merlin go. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t ever want to, but it doesn’t do to keep the captain waiting. “I’ll come find you later, yeah?”

“You’d better,” Merlin says, stepping back. “Now go, I can feel Annis getting impatient from here.”

With a wave and a smile, he turns and heads off in his original direction, and Gwaine watches him for a heartbeat, two, before pivoting on his heel towards the captain’s quarters.

“So your debt is settled, then?” Annis drawls as he enters the room, one eyebrow raised coolly at him.

“It is,” Gwaine says with a grin, “but you know I would’ve helped Morgause anyway. I would’ve done anything to watch that bastard die.”

“I’m glad you had the chance,” Annis replies, rolling her eyes a little, but Gwaine doesn’t miss the sort of wistful tone of her voice. “I expect you back at work immediately, you know. I only gave you leave for ten days.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else, Captain,” Gwaine says, ducking his head in respect. “He asked about you, y’know. He seemed quite bereft when that fool Cenred told him no one had heard from you in years.”

Annis smiles, only a little bitter. “As he should be,” she says. “Now get back to work, Gwaine, I don’t pay you to talk.”

“Shame, that,” Gwaine says, “I would make a fortune,” and Annis is laughing when she says, “Be gone with you, honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you.”

~

After hours of searching, the sky growing steadily darker and greyer above their heads, Morgana and Morgause have still not found Elena.

Morgana is starting to get sick with worry. She shouldn’t have left Elena alone, her hands bound, helpless. If something happens to her, if something has happened to her... Morgana doesn’t even want to think about it, doesn’t want to let the guilt creep further in.

“What could have happened to her?” Morgana asks, eyeing the darkened sky. There’s no way Elena could’ve got this far by herself, tired as she was, only on foot.

“Best case scenario,” Morgause says, “she wandered off and is now hopelessly lost somewhere in the woods we have yet to stumble upon.”

Morgana swallows. “And the worst?”

“The Sidhe found her,” Morgause says grimly. “And if they have they will carve out her heart and eat it. It’s how they survive, how they persist in their immortal existence,” she says, with an odd mixture of disgust and pity. “As it is told, the last star that fell some five hundred years ago was butchered for their life force. They should be just about due another.”

“We have to find her,” Morgana says, determined, “we can’t let that happen to her.”

“Agreed,” Morgause mutters, and spurs the horse onward.

They ride in silence for a bit more, but eventually Morgana’s curiosity gets the better of her and she asks, “Who’s Cenred? The person you thought sent me to spy on you.”

“Cenred is a very unpleasant man,” Morgause says. “He’s... it’s complicated.”

Morgana laughs, a little sad. “I could do with a distraction from worrying about Elena.”

“He’s one of the men lined up to take the throne after the late king’s demise,” Morgause explains, something bitter in her voice, “and of course they are all men.”

Morgana is... confused, to say the least. “Well, yes,” she says, because of course they are. There has never been a queen of Camelot, and Morgana doesn’t expect there ever will be. Power is for men; she has known this to be true for years and years. Morgana suspects it is one of the reasons Uther fears sorcery so much, an art which is so often practised by women.

“No,” Morgause says. “This is not how it should be. Stormhold has been ruled by queens for centuries, and we would have been for centuries more had Caerleon not murdered his way into power. Had he not executed my mother, and my sister, too.”

Morgana exhales sharply. “I am so sorry,” she says softly, and she means it. She never knew her parents, and the ache of losing something she never really had has dulled over time; she can’t imagine what it’s like for Morgause. “So you’re the... princess, I suppose?”

Morgause nods. “My legitimate claim to the throne is irrelevant, however,” she says, all business again. “The successor must find the Power of Stormhold in order to claim the throne.” She huffs a breath. “When I found you, I presumed you had been sent to prevent me doing so. I’m sorry for attacking you, by the way, I realise I haven’t apologised for that yet.”

“It’s fine,” Morgana says, dismissive, “you were right to try and defend yourself.”

Morgause looks at her over her shoulder, her smile fond. “I’m really glad I met you, Morgana,” she says, and Morgana smiles back, says, “I’m really glad I met you, too.”

~

It isn’t long before the star turns up at the inn Grunhilda constructed out of fallen trees and more than a little magic, just as she expected.

What is not expected is that the star is alone, shivering and miserable; the woman who found her – stole her, Grunhilda corrects, because the star belongs to the Sidhe – is nowhere to be seen. Interesting. Grunhilda is not sure if this will make her job easier or harder.

“Oh, my dear,” Grunhilda says when she opens the door to the star. “Come in, come in. My name is Grunhilda, I’m the mistress of this establishment. I can offer you a hot bath as well as a room for the night, if you would like.”

The star looks obviously conflicted. “I have no money to pay you-” she starts.

“Not a problem,” Grunhilda assures her. “I don’t expect payment. A poor little thing like you, you shouldn’t be out this late by yourself. Knowing you’re safe and sound is enough for old me.”

The star smiles gratefully at her, and Grunhilda can already see the faint glow around her face, the brightness of her heart. It’s all she can do not to shout with glee as she leads the star up the stairs to the room.

“This is where you shall sleep,” she tells the star, motioning towards one of the bedrooms. “You can get yourself settled in there while I draw you a bath.”

“Thank you,” the star says, “thank you so much,” and this is easier than it is ever been for Grunhilda and her kind. Her heart glows afire at the first sign of seemingly genuine kindness, so tantalising it’s all Grunhilda can do not to draw her knife from where it is concealed in her dress and cut it out of the star’s chest there and then.

As it is, she only smiles at the star, says, “It’s no problem at all, my dear.”

“Elena,” the star says, only a little bit awkward. “You can call me Elena.”

Grunhilda smiles wider. “Elena,” she says, nodding, “okay,” and turns on her heel to stride towards the bathing room.

Once she’s drawn the bath, she goes to knock on Elena’s – the star’s – Elena’s – door, tell her it’s ready for her. Elena opens it, wearing the bathrobe Grunhilda had left laid out on her bed, smiling.

“Thank you,” she says, again, and follows Grunhilda to the bathing room.

Once there, Elena approaches the bath, shedding the robe as she goes, utterly unselfconscious even in the presence of a stranger. She dips a toe into the water, makes a pleased sound – Grunhilda ensured it would be cool enough not to scald but warm enough to settle into Elena’s bones – and sinks all the way in, leaning back with a contented sigh.

“Would you like me to leave you to it?” Grunhilda asks. “Give you a little privacy, you know.”

Elena shrugs a shoulder, leaning back in the bath. “I don’t mind if you stay,” she says, after a moment. “I’m sort of tired of being alone, honestly.”

Aha, Grunhilda thinks triumphantly, and then hurries towards her. She can use that. “Oh,” she says, conjuring a chair and pulling it up to sit behind Elena. “You’re a bit young to be all alone in the world.”

“It’s a recent development,” Elena says, sounding more than a little bitter about it. “I was torn away from my friends and my family and everyone I’d ever loved, and I have no way of getting back to them, ever. I have no way of getting home.”

Grunhilda thinks of the rest of the Sidhe elders, now lost to the sands of time and the cruelty of life and death, and she says, “That must be horrible.”

“It is,” Elena says matter-of-factly. She skims her fingers across the surface of the water, leaving rippling patterns in her wake. “It’s miserable. This is the happiest I’ve been since I got here.”

“Well, I’m very glad to help,” Grunhilda says warmly. “Is there anything more I can do for you?”

“No,” Elena says, after a moment’s pause. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Grunhilda says, getting to her feet. “I’ll just go make sure the bed’s warm for you when you get out of the bath.”

Shutting the door behind her, she reaches into the folds of her dress and pulls out the knife, caressing the flat of it with the tips of her fingers.

“Soon,” she whispers, “soon.”

~

Morgana and Morgause haven’t found Elena by the time night falls, and Morgana can no longer stave off the worry that they will never find her, that she is lost for good.

They stop at an inn at Morgause’s insistence, since it is too dark for their search to be particularly effective, and they will be no use to Elena unrested. Morgause leads the horse to the stables, and Morgana steps up to rap smartly on the door.

The woman who answers it is short and dumpy with a kindly enough face, who says, “Why hello there, dear. I’m Grunhilda, the mistress of this establishment. What can I do for you this evening?”

Morgana smiles at her. “I’m so sorry to wake you at this late hour,” she says, “but my friend and I need shelter for the night. Do you have a room you could offer us?”

“I could offer you two, actually, unless you’re dead set on just the one,” Grunhilda says with a lewd wink, and Morgana blushes furiously. “I’m seeing to another guest at the moment, but if you’d like to wait inside I’d be happy to show you when I’m done.”

Morgana nods, says, “Thank you,” and steps inside the inn as Grunhilda hurries back up the stairs.

The place is very simply decorated, with high ceilings and plain walls. Morgana wrinkles her nose at the mess scattered across the room, only to freeze when her gaze lands on something familiar.

A necklace, lying on the counter, inlaid red stone glinting in the candlelight.

“Elena,” Morgana breathes, and, grabbing the necklace, jumps for the stairs. She takes them two at a time, heart pounding, and bursts into the room at the end of the hall, the only one with the door firmly closed.

As she expected, Elena is lying on the bed, her skin glowing with a bright, brilliant light, her eyes closed, a beatific expression on her face, and Grunhilda is holding a sharp, glittering knife above her head, poised to strike.

Morgana erupts with rage – quite literally, it seems; she feels it bubble up from somewhere inside her and pour out of her in an explosion of power. It knocks Grunhilda out, the knife clattering on the ground, and Elena’s eyes fly open in shock. They widen when she sees Grunhilda on the floor, and Elena promptly scrambles up from the bed. Morgana grabs her by the arm, dragging her out of the door.

“Are you okay?” Morgana demands, and Elena retorts, “That woman just tried to cut my heart out of my chest, what do you think?” and, affronted, Morgana snaps, “Fine then, remind me never to try and save your life again.”

There’s a crash, and then a bang, and then Grunhilda is charging down the stairs after them, and Morgana grabs Elena’s hand again and runs.

They bump into Morgause on the way out, who looks at them both, startled.

“What on earth’s going on?” she asks. She gives Elena a considering look, head tilted. “Is this your friend?”

“No time,” Morgana barks, “we need to get out of here, and quickly.”

Morgause opens her mouth to protest, but before she can, Grunhilda bursts out of the door, her eyes wild, her knife raised. Immediately, Morgause shoves Morgana and Elena behind her and draws out her sword.

“Stay behind me,” Morgause instructs them, “and when you can get away, take the horse and ride as fast as you can away from here.”

“But Morgause-” Morgana begins, because they can’t just leave her. What about Morgause’s quest?

“Do it,” Morgause says urgently, and whirls around to parry Grunhilda’s blow. Morgana flinches, and Elena tugs on her hand, whispers, “Come on.”

“We can’t just leave her!” Morgana hisses, and Elena rolls her eyes, says, “Who said anything about leaving?”

A few minutes later, they burst out of the stables on Morgause’s horse. Morgause glances at them, distracted, and Grunhilda seizes the opportunity to swipe across her lower body in one swift motion. Morgause gasps in pain, clutching her stomach with the hand not tightening around the hilt of her sword.

Morgana’s eyes go wide with horror, and she yells, “Charge, Elena!” and then they are, charging right at Morgause and Grunhilda.

They knock Grunhilda aside and Morgana reaches out her arms to grab for Morgause, pulling her up onto the horse between her and Elena.

“Are you okay?” Morgana asks, holding her tight. Morgause leans back into her, and Morgana can feel her shaking.

“I don’t know,” Morgause manages. “I think-” She makes a horrible gasping noise and Morgana tightens her grip around her waist. “I think the knife broke off inside me. I can feel it’s poison spreading through my veins.”

“We need to get her help,” Elena calls from in front of them.

“Well obviously, but where from?” Morgana frets, and Morgause says, tiredly, “I know a place where we’ll be safe.”

~

“I was so close,” Grunhilda rages, “I could taste her heartbeat, I could feel its pulse as if it were my own-”

Sophia surveys her impassively. “You let her get away,” she says.

“I was overpowered!” Grunhilda retorts. “She was rescued by that human, the one who found her in the crater.”

“Fool,” Sophia says coolly. “That woman was no human. She is the long lost daughter of Queen Vivienne, and the druid with her was her half-sister.”

Grunhilda’s eyes widen. “But Morgana le Fay was killed as a baby,” she says, and Sophia scoffs.

“And you’re an even bigger fool if you actually believe that,” she says. “In any case, it is irrelevant now. You must find the star and bring her here.”

“Yes, Sophia, as you command,” Grunhilda grumbles.

But the crystal refuses to settle when she tries to scry for the wretch’s whereabouts, no matter how much she mutters and curses, which can only mean-

“They’re in the sky,” Grunhilda says, realisation dawning on her face, “we’ve lost her.”

~

They materialise on the deck of a ship, and Morgause promptly collapses to the ground, hand falling away from her side. Morgana inhales sharply and crouches down next to her, but Morgause is only unconscious, not dead; the journey here probably sapped her of her remaining vestiges of energy.

“Morgause, I thought you weren’t in need of my services any-” the voice breaks off abruptly with a choked-off gasp of horror at the sight of Morgause on the ground. “Morgause! What the hell happened to her?”

“She was attacked,” Morgana begins, but the man whirls on her, eyes blazing.

“Percival, take these two to the brig,” he spits. I’ll take Morgause to Merlin to be seen to.”

“No, you don’t understand, we didn’t do this,” Elena protests. “She was attacked trying to protect us, and she transported all of us here so she could get help.”

“A likely story,” the man named Percival snorts derisively. “I’ll let Captain Annis know we’ve got witch hunters on board on my way back, Gwaine, don’t you worry about that.”

Percival grabs them with an arm each, all but lifting them off the ground. That doesn’t stop them struggling, but their efforts are worse than futile and result only in him tightening his grip on them both.

He takes them below deck and tosses them in a cell reminiscent of the dungeons of Camelot, and for a moment Morgana is almost homesick. Almost. After he’s tied them together – “Not taking any chances,” he sneers – he gives them one final look of contempt before hauling the bars across, locking them in and striding off.

“Well,” Elena says. “We’re fucked.”

“Thanks for that,” Morgana snaps, “I hadn’t noticed.”

There’s silence after that for a while, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the steady, rhythmic drip of water... somewhere, Morgana can’t be sure.

“I think I may be a sorceress,” she says suddenly.

Elena snorts. “You don’t say.”

“I’m serious,” Morgana says, and explains the encounter with Morgause. She doesn’t mention the... explosion, for want of a better word, when she found Grunhilda about to attack Elena. She’s not sure she has the words to.

“Yeah,” Elena says when she’s done, “that sounds like magic to me.”

“What would you know? You’re just a star,” Morgana says, her voice a little harsher than she intended it to be.

“I’d know an awful lot, as it happens,” Elena retorts, sounding affronted. “I’ve watched your world for years and years and I have seen the worst of what people will do to each other in the name of their gods or their kings or themselves. But I have also seen the best of it. There is such goodness in this world, and yet you all seem determined to destroy it.”

Morgana swallows hard. After a minute, she says, “Yes,” her voice tiny and quiet, “yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Elena’s silent for a long while. “Thank you,” she says, abrupt and brusque. “For saving my life, I mean. I realised I never said.”

Morgana shrugs, feels the movement against Elena’s shoulder blades. “You’re welcome,” she says, and she means it more than she can say.

“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Elena asks, her voice softer than before, and Morgana shrugs again.

“Let’s just hope Morgause heals before they decide,” is all she says, pressing briefly back against Elena for... comfort, or, or something.

The door scrapes open all of a sudden and they both look up, startled. A figure approaches, face shrouded in darkness, and sets a bowl down in front of each of them.

“Food for you,” they say, and they sound horribly, horribly familiar, almost like-

“Elyan?” Morgana whispers, and the man jerks away from her.

“How do you know my- Morgana?” Elyan gasps, realisation dawning. “What are you doing here?”

“You know this man?” Elena whispers furiously, and Morgana says, to both of them, really, “It’s a long story.”

“You know Gwen thinks you’re dead, don’t you?” she says to Elyan, unable to keep the reproach out of her voice. “You have no idea how much she cried for you.”

He looks away, pained. “I will return home soon,” he says, and it sounds like something he’s prepared, trotted out for the appropriate moments. “You just- you don’t know what it’s like here, Morgana. It’s incredible.”

Morgana kind of thinks she does know, actually, but she doesn’t bother correcting him. There are more important issues at hand. “I’m sure,” she says impatiently. “What are they planning on doing with us, do you know?”

“Gwaine wants you both executed if Morgause dies, and maybe even if she doesn’t,” Elyan says, mouth pulling up in sympathy, for whom Morgana doesn’t know. “They’ve known each other for years, and Gwaine sort of adores her. I heard she rescued him from slavers after his father died, but. Gwaine doesn’t like to talk about the past.”

Morgana bites her lip, swallows hard, says, “Morgause is dying?”

Elyan nods. Morgana’s eyes have started to adjust to the darkness again, and she can see the sadness lining his mouth, the corners of his eyes.

“The blade she was stabbed with was laced with some kind of poison. It’s slowed her heart down to only the faintest beat, and she’s gone so pale she could be dead already. Our resident sorcerer’s tried everything but nothing’s worked.”

“Let me see her,” Elena says suddenly. Elyan’s gaze flicks to her, clearly sceptical. “I think I can help.”

“I really don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Elyan tells her. “Even if there was anything you could do, Gwaine would probably kill you before you could get near.”

“We didn’t do this to her,” Elena repeats, exasperated. “We aren’t witch hunters, you have to know that. Morgause helped save my life, and I think I can return the favour. Let me try. Please?”

Elyan deliberates for a long time, clearly torn. Finally, he says, “Okay,” and Morgana swears she can feel Elena beaming through her body.

~

Elyan comes for Elena what must only be a few hours later, though it feels like days in the silence of the cell. Elena must have drifted off at some point, because when Elyan slips inside he kneels next to them and Morgana feels him shake Elena, hears him whisper, “Elena. Elena, come on, Gwaine agreed to let you see her.”

Morgana feels Elena jolt, pulling Morgana with her, and then slowly relax back into Morgana, utterly too comfortable with their situation for Morgana’s liking.

“Okay,” she mumbles. “Are you going to untie us?”

“Just you, I’m afraid,” Elyan says, glancing at Morgana. Morgana stares back at him, unflinching, and he quickly looks away. “And it took me a while to get him to agree to just that, okay, don’t look at me at like that.”

He has Elena untied in under a minute and Morgana tries to give herself slack, give herself something before he tightens the rope again, but to no avail. The rope cuts into her skin just as deep as before, into what must be burning red welts where it’s rubbing at her.

Elyan helps Elena to her feet; she spares Morgana an apologetic glance when she’s steady.

“Are you sure you can’t untie Morgana too?” Elena asks. “You know we’re both innocent, Elyan.”

Elyn looks really, horribly guilty as he says, “I can’t. Captain’s orders, I’m afraid.”

Elena pouts. She looks really, really ridiculous, and kind of a little bit pretty, if you like that sort of thing. Morana gives her head a little shake, willing away the stray thought about Elena’s mouth.

“Okay,” Elena says reluctantly. “But we’re coming back and getting you when we’ve got this mess sorted out, I promise.”

Morgana smiles at her, can’t really help it. “Okay,” she says, though she doesn’t really share Elena’s optimism. Elena’s a star, yes, but she’s... she’s Elena, clumsy stumbly foul-mouthed Elena. There’s no way she’ll be able to heal Morgause.

Which is why, after Elyan’s escorted Elena out of the cell and their footsteps have faded into the darkness, Morgana closes her eyes, inhales deeply and thinks, rope, thinks of it unravelling like thread pulled taut, and concentrates on the image in her mind so hard that stars start exploding in the dark.

And then there’s a light thump and strands of rope tickling her skin and Morgana’s free. She scrambles to her feet instantly, not wasting any time being surprised that it actually worked.

Morgana has to get out of here. She is not dying here alone in a foreign land which is not her own. She is not.

She strides up to the bars and reaches through, feeling for the lock. It opens under her hands without very much effort at all, and she hurries out, casting her gaze around for some kind of exit, some way to get up to the main deck. She hasn’t got a plan, exactly, but they’re on a ship; there must be a rowboat or something that she could commandeer.

Except once Morgana’s back up on deck, she quickly realises they actually aren’t on a ship – at least not one that travels by water. They appear to be travelling through the air, which Morgana didn’t even realise was possible, not for a vessel of this size. It seems magic is an even more powerful force than she could ever have imagined.

And then, suddenly, before Morgana can rethink her plan, there’s a sharp prick at the base of her neck and a cool, vaguely amused voice, saying, “And what are you doing out of the brig?”

Morgana swallows hard, cursing herself for getting distracted and letting herself get caught so easily.

“Turn around,” the voice commands, “slowly,” and even if there were not a sword to her neck Morgana would not even think about resisting. She keeps her head held high, though, and makes a show of straightening up.

“Escaping,” she says evenly, and the woman laughs, lowering her sword a little. She’s older than Morgana, fairer-haired, and she holds the sword like it’s an extension of her arm, with complete respect for its power, like Gwen would hold it.

“And how, may I ask,” the woman says, still sounding like she finds this all terribly funny, “do you intend to do that, fifteen thousand feet off the ground? Actually, never mind that – how did you get out of the brig in the first place?”

She eyes Morgana suspiciously, but with more curiosity than accusation, and Morgana finds herself wanting to tell the truth, that she’s... a sorceress, however ill-advised such an admission would be.

Instead, she shrugs, as nonchalant as she can manage. “It wasn’t particularly difficult,” she says, which isn’t a lie. “Elyan could do with improving his knot work.”

The woman raises her eyebrows, her gaze flicking from one of Morgana’s wrists to the other. Morgana knows they have been rubbed red and raw and bites her lip against the desire to scratch at them, to soothe the itch.

“I see,” the woman says, no less suspicious, and then there is this- not quite explosion, but it rocks the whole ship, and it’s quickly followed by a burst of brilliant white light that’s so bright it’s nearly blinding.

The woman’s eyes go wide, and she breathes, “Oh no,” before grabbing Morgana by the arm and dragging her along with her.

They burst into what appears to be some kind of dedicated medical room, the walls lined with glass jars and bottles that Morgana vaguely recognises from Gaius’ workroom. There’s a bed at the back of the room, on which Morgause is laid out, her face pale, her body very, very still.

Morgana’s breath catches, and she wants to push the other people crowded around her aside, see for herself if Morgause is okay, but the woman from the deck is still gripping Morgana’s arm.

Gwaine is the first to notice them, and his eyes go narrow and dark. “Captain, what’s she doing here?” he demands.

“I found her on deck, apparently trying to escape,” says the woman – no, Captain Annis, this must be, and Morgana files that knowledge away to be surprised about when the situation is less dire. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

They all look at Elena, who’s staring down at Morgause, breathing heavily, a faint but unmistakable glow lighting up her skin.

“I,” she says, then swallows hard, tries again. “I wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

“No shit,” Gwaine bites out. “If you’ve hurt her more than you already have, I swear upon everything I hold dear that I will make you pay.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Morgana explodes, “she was helping us, we didn’t do this to her! Elyan, tell him we wouldn’t do this.”

Gwaine whirls around, looking betrayed. “Fraternising with the enemy, are you, Elyan? What, did she flash you her tits, is that it?”

“Gwaine,” Annis thunders, even as Morgana is spluttering in disgust. Gwaine has the decency to look a little ashamed, at least, and mutters something that might charitably be called an apology. Annis turns to Elyan, her eyebrows raised. “Well, Elyan? What do you have to say for these women?”

Elyan shifts uncomfortably. “I believe them,” he says. “I knew Morgana, before.”

“From Camelot?” Gwaine says, looking incredulous. “And that’s supposed to convince us she’s not evil how, exactly? Your homeland isn’t exactly known for its benevolent attitude towards sorcery.”

“Why is the burden of proof on us?” Morgana demands. “You have no evidence that we harmed Morgause in any way-”

“She’s dying!” Gwaine yells, whirling on her. “She’s dying and the two of you are entirely unharmed. Don’t you think that’s just a tiny bit suspicious?”

“Only if you presume guilt instead of innocence,” Morgana shoots back. “Why would she have brought us here with her if we had hurt her?”

“Why would she have not?” Gwaine retorts. “Maybe she brought you here so you could be duly punished for your actions.”

“Um, guys,” Elena says, but nobody’s paying her any attention. “GUYS!” she yells, shocking everyone into stillness. Elena looks briefly disconcerted, but then she swallows and nods at Morgause. “The wound’s healed.”

“Impossible,” says a man with dark hair and ridiculous ears. He hurries to Morgause’s side and starts inspecting her, so Morgana assumes he’s Merlin. After a moment, he looks at Elena, stunned. “The wound’s healed,” he says. “I expect she’ll be conscious any minute n-”

“What’s going on?” Morgause mumbles, and everyone jumps. “Morgana and Elena, are they okay?”

Gwaine’s eyes flick to Morgana, then back to Morgause. “Yeah, they’re fine,” he says, sounding uncertain, and Morgause slumps back, eyes closing again.

“Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “I hope you’ve been looking after them, Gwaine.”

“I,” Gwaine says, and coughs. Morgana gives him a triumphant look, and he looks away quickly. “Yeah, of course I have.”

~

Morgause falls asleep not long after waking, but Merlin assures them she just needs time to recover after suffering so much blood loss. He ushers all of them out except Gwaine, and Morgana is about to protest when Merlin gives him this tiny, knowing smile, and she closes her mouth and allows herself to be shooed.

Once they’re back on deck, Annis taps Morgana on the shoulder. “I think we need to have a little chat,” she informs her. “You too, Elena.”

Elena and Morgana exchange glances, but they follow Annis without protest; it’s not like they have any other choice, really. Annis is the type of woman who commands respect simply by existing.

She leads them past the rest of the crew, who are eyeing them and whispering, into what Morgana assumes are her quarters. She gestures for them to take a seat, but doesn’t sit herself. She looks at them, her expression unreadable.

“So,” she says. “You aren’t witch hunters.”

Elena snorts. Morgana gives Annis a level look.

“No,” she says. “We aren’t.”

“Then who are you?” Annis demands. “You are creatures of magic, both of you, that much is obvious.” Elena and Morgana look at each other, and Elena gives a minute shake of her head. “Do not lie to me,” Annis says sharply, “do not.”

She folds her arms and looks between the two of them, an eyebrow raised in challenge. Morgana opens her mouth to respond, but Elena is speaking before she can say anything.

“I’m a star,” she says, and Annis’s eyes go so wide.

“Oh,” she says, eventually. “Well that explains a lot. And you, Morgana?”

“I’m- I’m a sorceress,” Morgana says, stumbling over the word. It feels right to say it out loud, though, to acknowledge this part of her she’s only now realising existed. “From Camelot, like Elyan said. I’m a friend of his sister, and of him, I suppose.”

“I see. I feel I should apologise on behalf of my crew for assuming you two were witch hunters,” Annis says. “In their defence, your arrival was suspicious, and we have had cause to assume such in the past and been correct. Nevertheless, we were wrong about you, and for that I am deeply sorry, and hope you can forgive us.”

It’s possibly the most regal apology Morgana’s ever been given, and she grew up with royalty.

“Apology accepted,” she says, smiling warmly at Annis, and Elena nods.

“You’re welcome to stay on board the ship, as honoured guests. Well, actually, you don’t have a choice,” Annis informs them, matter-of-fact, “since we won’t reach the next trading station for another fortnight.”

“Oh,” Morgana says. “I can pay for room and board, if you’d like.”

“I said honoured guests, Morgana,” Annis says, rolling her eyes, but she looks sort of amused. “I can also offer you both clean clothes. I imagine you at least would like to change, Elena.”

Elena giggles, says, “That would be lovely, thank you,” and that’s when Morgana notices that Elena’s wearing only a bathrobe, presumably with nothing underneath.

Morgana’s face reddens, and she looks away quickly. She probably should’ve noticed earlier, but between Elena and Morgause both nearly getting killed and their subsequent capture and mistreatment at the hands of Annis’s crew, Morgana’s sort of had other things on her mind.

“Dresses or breeches?” Annis asks them both, looking between them.

Elena makes a thoughtful noise. “I think I’d like a dress, please,” she says, and turns to Morgana.

“Um,” Morgana says. She’s not used to being given the choice; she’s worn breeches before, of course, but only in private, Gwen the only other person to see the shape of her legs.

Annis clearly notices her surprise, because she smirks and says, “Many of the crew alternate between the two. Leon is frequently seen in the prettiest of dresses, and Sefa has taken to wearing breeches nearly all the time.”

“Oh,” Morgana says, unsure quite what to say to that, which is probably the point. Annis looks like she enjoys making people feel uncomfortable. “I’ll have a dress for now, then.”

“All right,” Annis says, and gets to her feet. “I’ll take you to Gilli, then, and he’ll get you sorted right away.”

~

“You thought what?” Morgause says, and bursts out laughing.

“Well what were we supposed to think?” Gwaine says, his face going red. “You appear on deck without warning, half dead, with two highly suspicious-looking people we’ve never met.”

Morgause smiles at him fondly. “Where are Morgana and Elena, anyway? I’d like to talk to them.”

“Merlin sent everyone away when you woke up,” Gwaine tells her. “And I think Annis wanted a word with them.”

“I see,” Morgause says, giving him a sidelong glance. “To apologise to them on your behalf, I hope?”

“More likely to interrogate them about who they actually are, if not witch hunters,” Gwaine says.

“You know what that means, then,” Morgause says meaningfully.

Gwaine looks at her, and she looks back at him, her gaze unflinching, and he sighs. “Fine, okay, I’ll apologise.”

Morgause beams at him. “Good,” she says, “now here’s your chance.”

“What?” Gwaine demands, but then the door’s being pushed open and Morgana and Elena walk in, their smiles widening when they see Morgause. “It is seriously creepy when you do that, you know,” he whispers, and Morgause whispers back, “Magic.”

"Morgause! So glad to see you awake and well," Morgana says, sounding genuinely delighted, and steps forward to hug Morgause briefly. Elena waves a little awkwardly, but she’s smiling just as hard."I was sort of convinced you were doomed for a while there."

“Were it not for your friend, I would’ve been,” Morgause says, very seriously. “I owe you a serious debt, Elena.”

Elena blushes. “Not at all,” she says. “I’d have been dead were it not for you.”

“We’re still grateful for what you did,” Gwaine says, a little gruffly. “Especially, um. After the way we treated you. The way I treated you, in particular.”

Morgause gives Gwaine a significant look, because despite what he seems to think, that did not qualify as an apology. Gwaine rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Which I’m horribly, incredibly sorry for,” he adds, “are you happy, Morgause?”

“I’m ecstatic,” Morgause says, rolling her eyes right back at him.

“It’s fine,” Elena says, nudging Morgana, who echoes, not without a great deal of reluctance, “Yes, of course, no hard feelings here.”

Morgause raises her eyebrows, but graciously does not comment. “So will you ladies be leaving us to return to your journey?” she asks, looking between the two of them.

“Actually, quite the opposite,” Elena says, beaming. “You’ll have to put up with us for a bit longer, I’m afraid.”

“Annis has said we can stay until the ship next sets down on land,” Morgana explains. “I offered to pay for our stay, but she told me not to be so stupid.”

She looks sort of offended by this, and Morgause can’t help but smile. It’s very evident that Morgana comes from money, and quite a bit of it, and is used to paying her way through the world. Morgause would usually resent such a display of privilege, but it charms her how strongly Morgana seems to believe in fair exchange.

“Most cruel and fearsome captain of the wide, wide sky, Annis is,” Gwaine tells them, and they all laugh.

~

The next few weeks aboard The Caspartine, as Elyan informs them it’s called, are honestly rather wonderful. Annis waves off any attempt Elena or Morgana make to help out around the ship – “I already have a crew for these things,” she tells them repeatedly, rolling her eyes long-sufferingly every time, “you are my honoured guests and you will let me treat you as such.”

Elena bonds with Mithian, Annis’ first mate, almost instantly, and they spend a lot of time hanging out together, which makes Morgana happy, because she doesn’t have to worry about Elena or keep her occupied. Really. She’s happy Elena’s found a friend.

“Of course you are,” Morgause says, sounding annoyingly knowing, when Morgana tells her this. Morgause has taken to teaching Morgana how to control her magic, how to harness the raw power suddenly unleashed in her, how to make it bend to her will and keep it from overwhelming her. For the most part, Morgana enjoys their sessions. “That’s why you keep looking over at them and glaring.”

Morgana narrows her eyes. For the most part, Morgause isn’t making utterly untrue implications and- and smirking at her.

“I am not glaring," she says hotly. "I am merely looking at them... disapprovingly. And if I think it is ridiculous for them to form such a close bond considering we will hardly be here very much longer, well. I am mature enough to keep it to myself.”

She can’t help but glance over to where Elena’s dancing with Mithian, who elected to teach her when she found out Elena never learnt. Elena is predictably terrible at it, apologising profusely every time she flails her arms around or steps on Mithian’s toes, but Mithian has a seemingly endless well of patience, and laughs when Elena missteps instead of chiding her or rolling her eyes, as Morgana would’ve done.

Morgana looks away quickly, but apparently not quickly enough, because Morgause is smirking at her again.

“What,” Morgana snaps, “what,” and Morgause bites her lip against a grin, says, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

They give up on the session not long after that, because Morgana can’t concentrate – Morgause takes that as proof of... something, whatever ill-will she suspects Morgana of harbouring for Mithian and Elena’s budding friendship.

Morgana makes the mistake of looking over at Elena and Mithian again, and sees as Elena trips over herself right into Mithian’s chest, sending her stumbling back against the side of the ship. Morgana sees Mithian laugh softly, and then press her head against Elena’s forehead, whispering something to her that Morgana can’t make out. When that doesn’t quiet Elena’s mortified apologies, Mithian cups Elena’s chin with obvious gentleness and tips her head up to kiss her.

Something hot and horrible flushes Morgana’s body, and she is momentarily grateful that Morgause’s first and most insistent lesson was self-control in the face of emotion. Shaking herself hard, she mutters something vaguely like a goodbye to Morgause and storms below deck where it is safe and quiet and there isn’t anyone canoodling right in front of her.

Or so Morgana thought.

“Must you do that here?” she snaps at a chagrined-looking Merlin and a predictably unapologetic Gwaine, who jump apart when she appears.

She doesn’t wait for their response, just storms right past them, though she hears Gwaine mutter something disparaging about her to Merlin, who just shushes him.

The kitchen is blessedly empty when Morgana gets there. She drops into one of the chairs at the huge dining table and puts her head on the table. She just needs some time alone, she thinks to herself, then she’ll feel better, less on-edge, less... itchy. She’s barely had a moment to herself lately – it’s sort of difficult to be alone on a ship this big – and it’s not good for her.

And then there’s a voice, breaking through the silence: “Morgana? Is that you?”

Morgana groans. Make that impossible. She lifts her head, glaring at Lancelot, the cook.

“What do you want,” she says moodily.

“I was in the middle of tidying up, actually,” he says, as mild as ever. “You’re sort of in the way.”

“Oh,” Morgana says, and dutifully gets up, makes to leave, but Lancelot says, “No,” and, “Don’t let me kick you out. If you want some peace and quiet, the sacks of wheat over there are great company.”

“I,” Morgana says, and swallows, can’t continue. She wants to know how Lancelot knew that’s what she wanted – and, more importantly, why he’d give a fuck about what she wanted – but just nods gratefully and heads in the direction he’s indicating.

As promised, it is sort of wonderful to curl up on top of one of the sacks, wriggle around until she gets comfortable, and just lie there with nothing but her thoughts and the soft sounds of Lancelot working to keep her company.

She isn’t jealous, that would be absurd, but she can’t stop thinking about the way Mithian had held Elena, the way they had so obviously fit together. She wants that, has wanted it for what feels like forever, judging by the ache in her chest.

Maybe she is jealous, she thinks. Or, no, that’s not the right word. She envies them their happiness, however fleeting it may be, envies that they get to have what she can only dream of.

Yes, she thinks, that must be it, wrapping her arms around her body and curling up into herself.

~

Gwaine and Merlin head up on deck after they bump into Morgana – well, after Morgana bumps into them, more accurately, extremely rudely at that – intending to enjoy the rare peace that seems to have descended on the ship tonight.

Elena and Mithian are sitting together against the side of the ship, heads bent, talking quietly, and Gwaine can’t help but laugh softly to himself. He thinks he maybe knows why Morgana was in such a bad mood just now. The green-eyed monster is easy to recognise.

Merlin gives him a curious look, and Gwaine tilts his head at the two of them. Merlin’s smile turns soft and fond and he says, quietly, “They’re adorable, aren’t they?”

“I suppose,” Gwaine says, shrugging.

Elena and Mithian seem to have become very close very quickly, and Gwaine would be worried about Mithian if he didn’t know that she could strike up a friendship with anyone, that she will miss Elena terribly when she (and Morgana) inevitably leave but also that she will get over it in time.

Gwaine sort of hopes they stay in touch. Elena’s actually quite a sweet girl when Gwaine isn’t convinced she tried to murder one of his best friends, and Gwaine likes her.

He sees Morgause waving at them from her perch atop an upturned crate, looking thoughtfully at the night sky, and they head over to join her.

“Morgana went below deck, I think in the direction of the kitchen,” Gwaine informs her, and Morgause just sort of nods.

“I know,” she says. “I think she needs some time alone, to sit and think about some things.”

She glances over at Elena and Mithian, an amused sort of smirk on her lips, and Gwaine grins, in no doubt of what Morgause means by some things.

“I knew it,” he says triumphantly, and Merlin gives him a weird look.

“What did you know?” he asks, sounding wary.

“Morgana,” Gwaine says, by way of explanation, and nods his head meaningfully at Elena. Merlin frowns, and Gwaine sees the moment he gets it because his eyes go wide and after a second, he bursts out laughing.

“Hush, both of you,” Morgause chides them, but her eyes are sparkling. “You must say nothing of this to either of them, is that understood?”

Gwaine pouts, but Merlin elbows him and says, “Understood.”

The three of them sit quietly for a few minutes. Gwaine tangles his fingers with Merlin’s, leans into his side, and Morgause looks at them so very fondly for a moment before shaking her head hard, her face returning to its usual careful superiority.

“So how’s the quest thing going?” Merlin asks suddenly, turning his head to look past Gwaine at Morgause. “You haven’t seemed to progress recently. Understandably, with what happened, and stuff, but, you know. We’re kind of all getting a little worried.”

Gwaine looks at Merlin curious, because Gwaine had been getting worried, and he’d heard murmurs of discontent amongst the rest of the crew, but they’ve all been sort of loathe to say it out loud, to ask if Morgause still intends to – or even still can – pursue the Power of Stormhold. He for one is not sure what he’d do if the answer was negative.

“No one else has found the stone,” Morgause says at length, “that much I know for sure. Partly because I set up an elaborate ruse for each of the other would-be successors, just to make sure they’d be going round in circles for weeks at least.”

Gwaine’s mouth opens in mock horror. “I am ashamed of you, Morgause, that’s hardly playing fair.”

Morgause’s smile is sharp and dangerous. “And I’ve hardly got to where I am today by playing fair, have I, Gwaine?” She looks away from him, back up at the stars. “I’m just as lost as they are, though. I can’t get a fixed reading on the stone, can’t seem to find it anywhere.” She sighs, rakes a hand through her hair. “It’s almost like it’s too close for me to pick up on its signal, though that wouldn’t make any sense at all. It must just be constantly moving, or something.”

She seems as unflustered as ever, but Gwaine has known her long enough to hear the frustration in her voice, see the desperation creeping into the corners of her eyes.

He presses against her side, a show of comfort. “You’ll find it,” he assures her.

“Of course I will,” Morgause retorts, but he feels her relax, just a little, just enough for him to relax, too. “Gods help this kingdom if any of those fools do. At least Caerleon knew how to rule, even if he never had much of a concept of fairness.”

Gwaine grimaces. His father was a knight in Caerleon’s army, that much of what he told the king was true, but the only words he spoke of Caerleon were caustic and coarse. And then he was killed while serving the tyrant king and got nothing for his trouble, save for his family tossed out of the only home they’d ever known.

Gwaine’s mother died a few years after that, from sickness and poverty and the sheer weight of heartbreak, and Gwaine was left alone in the world at the ripe age of seventeen, bitter and angry and hating everything. He’s honestly not sure what would’ve happened if he hadn’t found Morgause. He doesn’t like to think about it.

“You’ll find it,” he says fiercely. “You deserve this throne, and not because it’s your birthright or any bullshit like that. You deserve it because you would be the finest, fairest queen this land has ever seen, and the gods know we need you.”

Merlin squeezes his hand. “What he said,” he says, just as firm. “Everyone on this ship would see you to the bitter end.”

Morgause’s smile is wearily. “You are all too kind,” she says. “Well, except Gwaine, of course, he’s still an ungrateful little sod.”

“Hey, I repaid my debt to you when I snuck into Caerleon’s castle for you and pretended to be a noble,” Gwaine protests, mock-offended, “I don’t need to be grateful any more,” and Morgause laughs.

“You were never indebted to me, Gwaine,” she says, and Gwaine startles, his eyes widening, but before he can ask, Morgause straightens up and says, “Elena, hello.”

Gwaine looks around, sees Elena hovering in front of them, smiling hesitantly. He didn’t even hear her approaching, which is saying something considering graceful is not a word anyone would ever use to describe her, and it’s all but impossible to miss the stray items she knocks aside in her quest to get from one place to another, or the heavy sound of her footfalls.

“Hi, guys,” she says. “I was just wondering if you’d seen where Morgana went? I’m sure I saw her here earlier, but I looked around just now and she’d vanished.”

“Last I saw she was storming off in a jealous rage in the direction of the kitchens,” Gwaine tells her, unable to help the cheeky smile that crosses his face. He promptly gets two elbows in the ribs for his trouble.

Elena frowns, obviously confused. “Jealous rage? Over what?”

“The fact that Morgause is quite clearly superior to her in all ways,” Gwaine says, gingerly rubbing his sides. He’s not sure who has the pointier elbows out of Morgause and Merlin, but they both hurt on contact with his body a lot. “But especially magic.”

Elena’s face clears. “Oh, yeah,” she says. “I get the feeling she’s not used to not being instantly good at stuff.”

Gwaine sniggers. “That’ll be it, aye,” he says. “What’d you want her for, anyway?”

Elena’s cheeks go a little pink, and Gwaine raises his eyebrows. Oh, so it’s like that, is it.

“No reason,” she says quickly, and Gwaine wonders if she’s aware of how transparent she is. “Just wanted to ask her about, um. Camelot things. And stuff. It doesn’t really matter, I’ll go find her later.”

“You could go find her now,” Morgause suggests, and Elena looks dubious.

“I shouldn’t,” she says. “She wouldn’t want anyone disturbing her if she’s upset.”

“I’m fairly certain she’d be all right with it if it were you disturbing her,” Morgause says, giving Elena a significant look.

The blush deepens in Elena’s cheeks. “If you’re sure,” she says, not sounding entirely convinced. “The kitchens, you said?”

“The kitchens,” Merlin confirms, grinning at her, and Elena mutters her thanks, turns away to leave.

“Now that, boys,” Morgause says, as they watch Elena stumble down the stairs to the lower deck, “is how you do subtle.”

“Subtle is boring,” Gwaine scoffs, and Merlin grins at him, something soft and fond in his eyes. “You have to spell this shit out or everyone will just be pining forever.”

Morgause rolls her eyes, muttering something about not everyone being as oblivious as he and Merlin apparently are, and good gods do they really have to do that here, but Gwaine can’t really be sure of the specifics because he has better things to do when his mouth is attached to Merlin’s than listen to Morgause’s grumblings.

~

Lancelot leaves when he finishes tidying up, giving Morgana a nod on his way out of the door. Morgana curls up a little tighter, wondering if she should make her way back up on deck now, too. It’s been nice sitting here, having somewhere quiet to collect her thoughts, but she thinks she could not stand it if she were alone all the time, had no one to talk to but herself.

Then the door opens, and there’s a clatter, and Morgana assumes it’s Lancelot, back to retrieve a forgotten item or clean something he remembered he’d overlooked, but then she hears Elena’s voice calling her name.

“Over here,” Morgana says without thinking, and after a few seconds Elena’s head appears in front of her, smiling hesitantly.

“Hi,” she says. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Morgana says, and she’s surprised to realise it’s not a lie. Elena’s smile widens, becomes a little more real, and Morgana gestures for Elena to join her.

“Mithian says we should reach the trading station in the next few days,” Elena tells Morgana, plopping herself down next to her. Morgana dutifully moves over to accommodate her, but Elena just moves over too, because she apparently has no concept of personal space. Morgana supposes it’s probably because it’s kind of crowded up there in the sky, and tries not to think anything more of it. “I just thought you should know.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Morgana asks carefully.

Elena gives her a strange look. “Excited, I suppose,” she says. “It’s been lovely here on this ship, after the initial unpleasantness, of course, but, I don’t know.” She shrugs, doesn’t move away from Morgana’s side. “I’m sort of excited to see Camelot, honestly.”

Morgana isn’t sure how to react to Elena’s proximity. She’s not uncomfortable, exactly – if she were, she’d push Elena away without even thinking about it – she’s just a little... wrong-footed, unsure whether she should put an arm around Elena or leave her hands folded in her lap.

In the end, the decision is made for her, because Elena snakes an arm around Morgana’s waist, pulling her into a sideways hug, and it’s only natural for Morgana’s arm to curl around Elena’s shoulder.

“Won’t you miss all this?” Morgana says, waving a vague hand at the ship around them, but when Elena’s only response is a blank look, Morgana sighs and elaborates. “You’ve got very attached to this place, and the people on it. Especially... especially Mithian,” she says, with a sigh. “You and her have got very close in the time we’ve been here. I- I suppose I thought you’d be sad to leave. Her. And here. But also her.”

Morgana hates feeling this awkward, so she straightens up a little, arches an eyebrow in a challenge to cover the way she’s started shaking. She has the realisation, sort of dumbfounded by it, that she’s actually worried what Elena will say. That, if Elena says, yes, she’ll be heartbroken and she wants to stay so much more than she wants to leave, Morgana will... Morgana will let her.

(Not that Morgana really has a right to let Elena to do anything, she’s gradually realised. Elena is a person, maybe not a human person but a person nonetheless. It was sort of incredibly shitty of Morgana to just pick Elena up out of a crater when she was vulnerable and alone and decide she was taking her home with her.)

“Oh,” Elena says, giving her that strange look again. “I suppose, yes. Mithian is lovely, and it has been wonderful getting to know her, and I expect it will continue to be wonderful when I leave. She’s made me promise to write to her, to tell her all about Camelot, since Elyan refuses to talk about it and no one else has ever been there.”

Morgana exhales slowly, and doesn’t ask if Elena is sure. “That’s good,” she manages, “I’m- I’m happy you’ve made a friend.”

Elena laughs, but it sounds a little sad. “You sound like my father,” she says, and Morgana startles.

“You have a father?” she asks.

Elena’s smile morphs into something more genuine. “What,” she says, her eyes shining, “do you think stars just spring forth out of the dust of the universe or something?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Morgana mutters, wrong-footed all of a sudden, the way she seems to be a lot around Elena. “It’s not like I have very much experience, or anything.”

“I have a whole family up there,” Elena says, sounding wistful. “I’m going to miss them a lot.”

And there’s the guilt again, rushing in to fill the cracks in Morgana’s heart. “Is there no way you can get back?” she asks, and Elena shakes her head.

“Once a star has fallen, we can never un-fall,” she says, smiling ruefully. “It’s not the kind of thing you do lightly.”

“You didn’t have any say in the matter, though,” Morgana points out. “It’s not like you chose this.”

“No,” Elena says, and when she looks up at Morgana her eyes are terribly sad. “I did not.”

Morgana hugs Elena, then, burying her head in Elena’s neck and inhaling deeply. “I am so sorry,” she mumbles into the skin there. She feels Elena shudder, like maybe she’s trying not to cry, and keeps holding on. “I am so, so sorry, Elena.”

They sit like that for a long while. Morgana counts the hitches in Elena’s breathing and rubs gentle circles into her back and thinks that, actually, she could stay down here forever, if Elena would stay down here with her.

“Now,” Elena says, smiling through the tears brimming in her eyes, “come back up with me.”

She takes Morgana by the hand and stands up, hauling Morgana up with her. She stumbles into Morgana’s chest and Morgana reaches out to steady her automatically, putting a hand on Elena’s shoulder. Elena looks up slowly, her eyes very wide and very bright, and Morgana thinks about kissing her for a fraction of a second.

“Come on,” she says instead, and without further ado, they leave.

~

True to her word, Annis drops them off at the trading station with detailed directions back to the wall, and tells them they are welcome on board the ship whenever they like. Morgana thanks her profusely, shaking Annis’s hand hard and hugging her briefly.

“So,” Elena says, as they watch the airship fly away, “where are we headed now?”

Morgana spins on her heel and points straight ahead of her, says, “That way,” and Elena smiles.

“Right then,” she says, hooking her arm into Morgana’s, “there’s no time to waste!”

Her enthusiasm is sort of infectious, and Morgana can’t help but smile as they start walking. She’s not entirely sure what she’s going to do with Elena when they return to Camelot, but she’ll have to talk to Uther about giving Elena a position at court, or something. She’s... nice to have around, Morgana thinks, and leaves the thought there, because nice to have around doesn’t even come close to adequately describing Elena, but Morgana isn’t sure she wants to delve any deeper.

By the time they reach the forest, night is starting to fall, and neither of them are particularly keen on picking their way through trees and undergrowth in the dark. They set up camp right on the edge, Morgana rolling out her mat for Elena to sleep on, since she’ll be taking the first shift. Neither of them are willing to risk bandits at this stage.

Elena offers, but it’s only half-hearted, comes out around a yawn, and Morgana waves it away and says, “I’ll do it, don’t worry.”

When she moves to sit down on the other side of the fire they made, though, Elena gives her a confused, bleary-eyed look.

“You should sit here, with me,” she says, like this should be obvious. “It’s more comfortable than over there.”

“There isn’t really space,” Morgana says, kind of awkwardly. There isn’t. And it wouldn’t be... proper. Even Gwen hasn’t shared her bed since they were children.

Elena rolls her eyes. “There’s plenty of space,” she says, “don’t be silly. Come here.”

Morgana lets herself be pulled down onto the sleeping mat, but she stiffens when Elena curls around her, lets an arm rest against Morgana’s stomach.

“There,” Elena mumbles. “Comfortable.”

Morgana huffs out a breath. It is comfortable, and even as Morgana knows she’s being kind of aggressively cuddled, she can’t help but enjoy it. Most people keep their distance, give Morgana her space, and Morgana appreciates that, she does, but this is nice, too. She couldn’t do it all the time, but... it’s nice. Right now.

“Good night,” Elena says sleepily, and Morgana says, “Good night,” in return, her voice softer than she means it to be.

She lies there, listening to Elena’s breathing grow steadily deeper and deeper, and doesn’t move. She should extricate herself from Elena’s grip, she knows, because this is too comfortable, but she doesn’t. Selfishly, she doesn’t want to.

However, she must drift off herself at some point, despite her best intentions, because the next thing she knows she is being jolted awake by... something, she isn’t quite sure of what, and there’s a blonde-haired woman poking through her bag in front of them. Morgana sits up abruptly and demands, “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

The woman glances over at her and gives her a wicked smile. Something about her feels horribly familiar, though Morgana supposes it’s probably just that bandits are the same the world over.

“I believe it’s called stealing,” the woman says sweetly. “And before you get any heroic ideas about trying to stop me, you should know that I could put a knife through your chest without even looking at you, and, well.”

She nods at something over Morgana’s head and Morgana whips around, sees a man, probably the woman’s accomplice, gripping Elena by the arms, one gloved hand covering her mouth. Elena looks furious, her eyebrows doing an insistent, unintelligible dance on her forehead, and at any other time Morgana would find it amusing.

She turns back around, slowly, and the woman smiles at her.

“Your possessions can be replaced,” she says. “Your friend, on the other hand, can’t. Make the wise decision, yeah? This doesn’t have to be harder than it needs to be.”

“There’s nothing of value in there,” Morgana tells her, because there isn’t. The woman’s already holding the purse with its meagre coin. Morgana fishes out Elena’s necklace and holds it out to her. “This is probably more along the lines of what you’re looking for.”

The woman glances at her, curious, but moves to examine it. Almost immediately, she sucks in a breath, her eyes widening. She looks slowly up at Morgana, who meets her gaze head on.

“If I give you this,” she says, her voice hard, “will you let my friend go, unharmed?”

The woman swallows hard. “You have no idea what this is,” she says quietly, “do you?”

Morgana rolls her eyes. “It’s a pretty necklace,” she says. “I assume it has value to you?”

“It’s the Power of Stormhold,” the woman says, like this should be obvious. “It is worn only by the ruler of our land, has been for centuries. How do you not know that?”

“I’m not from here,” Morgana says, a tad on the defensive side. “It was- my friend found it.”

The woman glances over Morgana’s shoulder, presumably at Elena. “It’s glowing,” she says, looking back at Morgana meaningfully.

“Yes?” Morgana says, confused. “Is it not a magical object?”

The woman nods. “But it only glows when it is held by the rightful heir to the throne.” She tugs gently on the chain, pulling the necklace out of Morgana’s grip, and it goes dim rather abruptly. The woman bites her lip, and then holds it out to Morgana, who takes it, feeling more than a little confused.

The necklace starts glowing again.

The woman stares at Morgana like she isn’t quite seeing her, and then she says, very slowly, “What is your name?”

“I’m not telling you,” Morgana snorts, derisive. “You’re a bandit, you can’t expect me to trust you with-”

“Morgana?” the woman whispers, and the words die in Morgana’s throat.

“I,” she says, then swallows hard and tries again. “How do you- how did you know that was my name?”

The woman bites her lip. “I’m sorry,” she says, which isn’t an answer at all. “Morgana, I am so, so sorry.”

“How do you know my name?” Morgana demands, her voice breaking, and the woman calls out, “Tristan? Bring the girl over here.”

The man, Tristan, promptly appears with Elena in tow, who looks just as disgruntled as Morgana would expect. It melts away when she sees Morgana’s face, though, and she rushes forward to hug her, tight and clinging, but not at all unwelcome. Morgana hugs her back, pressing her face into Elena’s hair.

When they part, Elena turns to the woman, her hands on her hips. “Well?” she demands. “What’s going on here?”

“My name is Isolde,” the woman says, as if this explains anything at all, “and I’m sorry, Morgana, but everything you think you know about yourself is a lie.”

“What do you mean?” Morgana says warily. “How do you know who I am, tell me.”

“I was a maidservant for your mother when I was a child,” Isolde tells her, and Morgana inhales sharply. “I know, I know, hard to believe a common bandit could have been the servant of nobility once upon a time, but it’s true.”

Morgana swallows hard. “You know my mother?” she asks, hardly daring to hope.

“I knew your mother,” Isolde corrects, her mouth twisting on the emphasis. “I’m sorry, Morgana. She’s dead. By all rights, you should be dead as well, but I managed to smuggle you out of the kingdom before you could be killed and get you over the wall to your father.”

“My father?” Morgana manages.

Isolde nods. “I didn’t think Uther would claim you as his daughter,” she says, her voice hard. “I assume he told you you were the daughter of one of his friends, whom he generously took in as a ward when you were a baby after they died.” When Morgana nods, Isolde snorts. “I thought as much. Do you know he refused to take you at first? The gods only know why he changed his mind. Maybe his conscience finally caught up with him.”

Morgana thinks she should feel bitter about that, maybe even actually angry, but her mind is reeling to much for her to feel anything but shock. Distantly, she feels Elena take her hand, squeeze it gently, and the touch helps her come back to herself, helps her think more clearly.

“I have always regretted leaving you with him,” Isolde tells her. “I wanted to take you to the druids to be with your sister, but Vivienne made me swear I would take you to your father.”

A sister. Morgana has a sister. Her heart pounds even faster at this new development, and she thinks it might actually burst at the slightest more pressure.

And then Elena says, “Vivienne? As in, the old Queen Vivienne?” Isolde nods, and Elena gasps, and all of a sudden Morgana remembers the ship, remembers Morgause telling them about the queen.

About her mother.

“Morgause is your sister,” Elena says slowly, and Isolde grins, says, “Yes, Morgause, that’s her. I haven’t seen her in years but, oh, she was a wonderful child. You know her?”

Morgana nods, not trusting herself to speak right now. Elena squeezes her hand again, and Morgana is so grateful to have her here right now she can hardly breathe through it.

“We do, yes,” Elena says, turning to Isolde. “And she’s a wonderful woman, indeed.”

Isolde grins. “I’m sure the same is true of you, Morgana,” she says, sounding like she means it. “And your friend...”

“Elena,” Elena fills in dutifully.

“Elena,” Isolde repeats. “Lovely to meet you. And to see you again, Morgana.” She laughs a little, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you’re here, in Stormhold, after all these years. What brought you here, if I may ask?”

“I-” Morgana starts, and then glances at Elena. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Isolde, but she’s a bandit, a thief, probably also a murderer, and she doesn’t trust her with Elena, with a star. It’s an important distinction. Morgana’s not sure she trusts anyone with Elena, not really. “It was just supposed to be a fleeting visit, you know, see this world for myself. But I have found rather more than I expected to, and I am leaving with much more than I came with.”

Her gaze lingers on Elena and Isolde’s eyebrows goes up, and Morgana suddenly realises how that must’ve sounded. Her face burns, but she doesn’t bother to correct Isolde’s assumptions. It’s easier than trying to explain.

“I see,” Isolde says, at length. “You are returning to Camelot, then?”

We were, Morgana thinks, but that was before this, before she found out she had a life and a sister and a home here. And now... she doesn’t know.

“Yes,” Elena says, “I hear it’s simply marvellous there,” and that makes Isolde laugh, rich and warm.

Tristan coughs significantly, and all three of them jump. Morgana clearly wasn’t the only one who forgot he was there.

“Much as I hate to break this up,” he says, “Isolde and I should really be leaving. We’ve lingered here long enough; doesn’t do for wanted men to stay still for too long.”

“Of course,” Morgana says, eyebrows raising at wanted men. “Wouldn’t want you to get caught on our account.”

Tristan flashes her a smile, says, “That’s very gracious of you.” He turns to Isolde, holds out his arm. “Isolde?”

Isolde hooks her arm with his, smiles at Elena and Morgana. “Best of luck on your travels,” she tells them. “Sorry about the whole trying to rob you thing. No one else will attack you between here and the wall, I can promise you that much. And Morgana,” she adds, turning to her, “look us up if you’re ever in Stormhold again, yeah?”

She tips them both a wink and a wave, and then the two of them vanish into the trees, gone as quickly as they came.

“Well that was kind of exciting,” Elena says, after a minute, and Morgana has to laugh.

“I think I’ve had enough ‘excitement’ to last me a lifetime,” she says wryly, and Elena laughs too.

“So are we going to find Morgause again?” she asks.

Morgana smiles a little to herself at the casual way Elena says we, like there’s no question that Elena will come with her. Yeah, Elena’s definitely more than just nice to have around.

“Not yet,” Morgana says, thinking about Gwen, dear, sweet Gwen, the only reason she ended up here in the first place. “There’s something I have to do first.”

~

When Morgana crosses the wall, she is abruptly seized by Camelot guards. She’d been expecting no less, honestly, but it enrages her to be grabbed like a common criminal, and she yanks herself free of their grip.

“Our orders are to escort you to the castle, my lady,” one of them tells her, sounding to his credit a little chagrined, and Morgana lifts her chin.

“I can escort myself, thank you very much,” she says, and promptly stalks off in the direction of the castle. She gets looks as she passes through the lower town, people whispering about her behind her hands, but Morgana does not care. She has not missed this place even a little, and she should maybe be surprised about that, but she isn’t.

Uther rises when she strides into the throne room, the guards following at her heels, but he is unsteady on his feet. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is the palest Morgana has ever seen it and he looks ill, deathly ill, almost, and Morgana wonders if he missed her, if her leaving made him sick, if he cares for her that much. Or if he cares for her at all.

Her eyes harden, and the anger she had been unable to feel when she first discovered the truth about her parentage rushes through her veins. It’s kind of invigorating, honestly, and she straightens up, defiant.

“And what exactly do you have to say for yourself?” What should be a demand just sounds weak and plaintive. “You’ve been gone for weeks, we’ve been worried sick about you.”

Morgana arches an eyebrow. “Presumably literally, judging by the look of you,” she says, and Uther flinches. “I needed some time to myself to think, to try and find myself. And find myself I did.” She smiles at him, sickly sweet. “Hello, Father dearest.”

Uther’s forehead creases with confusion. “What on earth are you talking about, I-”

“Stop,” Morgana says, because she doesn’t have the time or patience to fight with him over this. “I don’t really blame you for hiding it, I suppose. Not only am I your bastard child, but the fact that the only way to get over the wall is to use magic puts you in a rather precarious position, given your well-publicised opposition to it.”

“Your accusations are outrageous,” Uther says finally, his words heavy and measured. “I can only assume that in your time away you have been bewitched, and are under the cruel spell of some sorcerer.” Morgana laughs bitterly, because of course he would take that tack. She doesn’t how she could have ever defended him; it is clear to her now that Uther does not care about ridding the world of evil, of saving innocent people from the perils of sorcery. All he cares about is his own selfish, bitter end. “I will graciously forgive you, as it is clear you do not know what you are saying.”

Morgana looks at him, and Morgana shakes her head, and Morgana says, smiling around the words, “You disgust me, you know that? You disgust me. I am ashamed to even call you my father. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a much more pressing engagement that I need to see to.”

And with that, she leaves Uther spluttering and strides off to Gwen’s chambers, sending the doors to the throne room flying shut, locked, behind her.

Gwen is not alone, Morgana abruptly realises, when she sticks her head around the door. She is with Arthur, embracing him, and Morgana braces herself for the pangs of jealousy but they do not come. She clears her throat quietly, suddenly not wanting to intrude.

They break apart instantly, embarrassed, and then they seem to realise who it is that has found them. Gwen’s eyes go wide and she exclaims, overjoyed, “Morgana!” She rushes to Morgana and wraps her arms around her, hugging her tight. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Morgana says, because she has, even if it wasn’t in the way she thought she would. “But I made it over the wall, Gwen, I did it. And I brought you back the star – or a piece of it, anyway.”

“Oh, Morgana,” Gwen says, burying her face in Morgana’s hair for a second, breathing in hard. “I knew you’d find a way, I knew you would, you’re brilliant, I just. I never thought I’d see you again if you did.”

Morgana pulls back, looking down at her hands, because she cannot stand the softness of the look on Gwen’s face. She pulls the lock of hair that she cut off Elena’s head just this morning out of her bag and hands it to Gwen, watching her unfold the fabric carefully.

Gwen promptly sucks in a breath, her eyes lit up with wonder. “Stardust,” she whispers, “actual, real stardust. Morgana, it’s beautiful.”

“What?” Morgana says, confused, and then she sees what Gwen sees, the clump of dust, albeit very beautiful dust, heaped on her palm. Morgana’s own eyes go wide, but with horror. “Elena,” she whispers, and then, “Fuck, fuck, I have to go.”

“But you’ve only just got back,” Arthur objects, and Gwen hushes him.

“What’s wrong, Morgana?” she asks urgently, clearly sensing the depth of her panic, and as quickly as she can Morgana explains about Elena, that the lump of space rock in Gwen’s hand should be part of a person. Elena cannot cross the wall, Morgana has realised, she cannot, but she is hardly safe in Stormhold either.

“Okay,” Gwen says, pocketing the stardust and putting a hand on Morgana’s shoulder. “Where is she now and how can we make sure she stays there?”

Morgana swallows hard at the we, overwhelmed with love for Gwen and her selflessness and her kindness.

She loves Gwen, she knows that, and she probably always will, because Gwen is her best friend and Gwen is wonderful in so many ways, but Morgana is no longer sure that she is in love with Gwen, and the sudden lack of certainty for a truth she has accepted for as long as she can remember is terrifying.

She has more pressing concerns right now, though.

“She’s camped out by the wall,” Morgana tells her, forcing herself to breathe deeply, “But I told her to come meet me when the sun had reached its peak in the sky,” and Gwen smiles at her, takes her hand and says, “Well then, there’s no time to waste. Let’s go.”

~

They take three horses from the stables – Uther is too busy dealing with the mess Morgana left him in the throne to notice them leaving – and ride out to the wall, urging their horses to go as fast as is physically possible.

“Wait!” Arthur yells, as they grind to a halt in front of the wall. “We can’t cross the wall, it’s impossible.”

“Not if you have magic,” Morgana tells him, and closes her eyes, concentrating hard.

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says quietly, like maybe he actually does understand but is unwilling to accept the implications of the conclusion.

“I’ll explain later,” Morgana says, something pleading in her voice, and Arthur just nods and follows her over the wall.

Elena isn’t there.

Morgana calls her name, getting steadily louder and more frantic, but Elena isn’t there. It’s not midday, yet, though, and Elena isn’t the most patient person ever but she would wait, Morgana knows she would, so she refuses to think that Elena might be- might be gone. Not yet.

“Morgana,” Arthur says awkwardly, and Morgana just shakes her head violently.

“Grunhilda must’ve found her,” she tells them. It was stupid of her to leave Elena by herself, near defenceless, but she wanted to see Gwen alone, to explain. So much for that, she thinks, and shakes her head hard, telling herself Elena wouldn’t have been any better had she come with Morgana.

“Do you know where she would’ve taken her?” Gwen asks, and Morgana shakes her head, a smile spreading tentatively across her face, says, “But I know someone who would.”

Morgana takes the mirror Morgause gave her before they left Annis’s ship and rubs it like Morgause told her to, concentrating on Morgause’s face in her mind.

After a few seconds, the glass starts to clear, and Morgause’s face forms amongst the fog.

“Morgana,” she says, looking pleased to see her for a moment, but her expression abruptly morphs into one of concern. “What is it?”

“I-” Morgana begins, because now that she’s seen her again she is overwhelmed by the desire to tell Morgause, to tell her sister, the truth about their shared parentage, about who Morgana really is, but there isn’t time for that. “I left Elena by herself barely an hour ago and when I returned just now she had vanished. I think-” She breaks off, swallowing hard. “I can only assume that the Sidhe have taken her, again.”

Morgause doesn’t look any less concerned, but her face softens with sympathy. “Oh, gods,” she says. “Where are you now?”

“Still by the wall,” Morgana says, and Morgause nods.

“I am not far from you,” she says. “Head north, into the forest. I will meet you shortly.”

“But there isn’t time,” Morgana protests, frustrated. “Can’t you just tell me how to find the Sidhe?”

“I could,” Morgause says, “but I have a Babylon candle, which will get you to her much more quickly than if you just rode. Also, I have a feeling you’ll need all the help you can get to defeat the Sidhe.”

“But Elena-” Morgana starts.

“They won’t have killed her yet,” Morgause assures her, her voice gentle, and Morgana falls silent. “You have not left her long, and they won’t have had time to properly prepare her. They will want to make sure her heart is positively glowing before they take it.”

“Okay,” Morgana says reluctantly.

“There’s something else you should know,” Morgause says, biting her lip. “It is highly unlikely that they would’ve taken her against her will. If she struggles or resists at all, it soils the purity of her heart. She must have gone with them willingly.”

Morgana feels like she’s been punched. “I- I understand,” she manages. She swallows hard, wills her heart to stop pounding quite so hard. “I will ride to meet you.”

Gwen pokes her head over Morgana’s shoulder, says, “We. She means we.”

“Gwen,” Morgana says, turning to glare at her, “this is dangerous. You and Arthur should go back over the wall to Camelot.”

Arthur looks very much like he agrees with her, but Gwen is determined. “We’re helping you,” she tells Morgana firmly. “I know she means a great deal to you and, well. You would do the same for me.”

“Morgana?” Morgause asks, and Morgana forces herself to look away from Gwen, to smile at Morgause. “Who is this?”

“This is Gwen,” Morgana says, “my- my friend.”

Gwen beams at Morgause, and Morgause smiles back. “I’m Morgause,” she says. “Any friend of Morgana’s is a friend of mine.”

“Likewise,” Gwen says. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude but we really should be going. We have a fallen star to rescue.”

Morgause nods at her, gives Morgana a sympathetic smile, and promptly disappears. Morgana puts the mirror back in her bag and straightens up, determination setting her features into stone.

“Come on, then,” she says, and they mount their horses and ride, faster than anyone of them has ever ridden in their lives.

They converge with Morgause what can only be a handful of minutes later, but what feels to Morgana like it may as well have been a lifetime, a lifetime in which Elena is being killed or tortured or worse. Morgause looks sympathetic, and offers Morgana a hug when they dismount, brushing gentle fingers over her cheeks.

“Elena,” Morgana says, as if to remind her, like Morgause needs reminding. “How do we get to Elena?”

“The Sidhe palace is located far outside of the city, several hours’ ride from here,” Morgause tells her, glancing at Gwen and Arthur, and then back at Morgana. “It’s likely that the Sidhe themselves have not yet reached it, though we should not assume-” She breaks off abruptly, her eyes widening, focusing straight at Morgana’s chest.

When she speaks next, her voice is barely more than a whisper. “Where did you get that?”

Morgana looks down, sees the necklace – the Power of Stormhold, her last link to the family she’s never known. “Elena had it on her when I found her,” she explains. “It was what knocked her out of the sky. But it belonged to my mother before she was killed – our mother, I should say,” Morgana corrects herself slowly, and sees the moment that the realisation dawns on Morgause.

Her breath hitches on a sob. “Morgana,” she says fervently, and pulls Morgana into a bone-crushing hug.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, sister,” Morgana says quietly. “I intended to come and see you after I returned from Camelot, and then I was too worried about Elena to think of anything else.”

“Elena, of course,” Morgause mutters, pulling back and wiping at her eyes. She pulls out the Babylon candle. “We must get to her. Everyone, hold onto me, and think of Elena as strongly as you can.”

“We don’t know her,” Arthur points out, reasonably enough, but Morgause tsks at him.

“You know Morgana, do you not?” she says impatiently. “Think of her, and her heart, and you won’t be far off.”

With that, she closes her eyes, lighting the candle with a whispered word. In the blink of an eye, the forest is gone, and they are in the middle of what must be the Sidhe palace. In front of them, a woman Morgana does not recognise is preparing Elena, a knife nearly identical to the one Grunhilda used before glinting in her hand.

She looks up on their arrival, her pretty features transforming into a scowl.

“Grunhilda!” she screams, and Grunhilda jumps to attention. “Dispatch of the intruders.”

“Yes, Sophia,” she says, and leaps at them.

Arthur is already moving in front of the others, drawing his sword. “Go free Elena,” he tells Morgana. “We’ll handle this one.”

Morgana nods briefly at him, hoping he understands how grateful she is. “Elena!” she hollers. “I’m going to get you free, do you understand me? Whatever they’ve told you, it isn’t true, they want to kill you but I’m not going to let them hurt you, I won’t-”

Abruptly she is knocked to the ground by the woman who is not Grunhilda – Sophia, Grunhilda had called her.

“You,” Sophia hisses, her eyes aflame with rage, “you are going to ruin everything.”

Morgana stares back at her hard. “I am not going to let you kill her,” she says, and shoves back at Sophia with everything that she has in her.

It sends Sophia flying across the room, crumpling against one of the walls, but she is not down long, and she hardly seems sapped of energy at all, while Morgana can already feel herself flagging. She pushes herself through it, though, like Morgause taught her, drawing on the magic innate in nature to hold her ground, to push back at Sophia.

But it seems like no time at all before Morgana has got so weak that she’s barely affecting Sophia at all, while she is gradually backing Morgana into a corner. The smug look on Sophia’s face lets Morgana know she’s well aware she has the upper hand, if she ever thought otherwise, and she aims a burst of energy at Morgana that knocks her off balance. Morgana feels herself stumble, collapse to the ground, and cannot get up again, has barely the energy to remain conscious.

“Morgana!” Gwen screams, but Grunhilda has led her and Morgause and Arthur all the way over to the opposite end of the cavernous palace; they are too far away to help her.

Morgana fights to keep her eyes open, struggles to sit up. If this is how she must die, then she is going to do it with dignity.

Sophia smirks down at her, something close to pity in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she tells Morgana. “You are going to die, and for nothing.”

And then Elena says, her voice the greatest thing Morgana has ever heard, “Over my dead body.”

She whacks Sophia around the head with the flat end of the blade Sophia was going to use to cut out her heart, and Sophia promptly crumples to the ground. Elena looks satisfied for a second, and then her gaze focuses in on Morgana and she just looks horrified.

“Morgana,” she says, kneeling in front of her. “Morgana, fuck, I am so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Morgana manages.

“It is so my fault,” Elena says angrily. It takes Morgana a second to realise the rage is directed at herself and not Morgana. “I let them talk me into coming here. I let them tell me you-” She swallows hard, looking down. “It doesn’t matter. Sophia was right, you shouldn’t have come here.”

“Yes I should,” Morgana says, and Elena looks up at her, her gaze piercingly sharp. “You’re going to be okay. I’m not dying in vain.”

“You’re not dying at all,” Elena says fiercely, and when she blinks there are tears in her eyes. “Morgana. Morgana. You are not dying.”

Morgana swallows hard, thinks, I love you, so simple and clear that she doesn’t know how she didn’t see it all along.

“I,” is all she manages before the black spots hovering in her vision overwhelm her and everything turns to darkness.

~

Morgana wakes, which is the first surprising thing. The second surprising thing is that when her vision finally stops swimming, it is Merlin’s grinning face which greets her.

“Is this hell?” she croaks, and Merlin pretends to look offended for a moment.

“Oh, really, that’s the thanks I get for saving your life?” Merlin shakes his head. “I’ll not be bothering in future. Though in the interests of fairness, I can’t really take all the credit. You have this to thank for keeping you holding onto dear life by the fingertips.”

Merlin holds out the flower Mordred gave her, twirling it absently between his fingers. It is just as fresh and perfect as the day she was given it, as the day it must’ve been plucked. She’d forgotten she even still had it on her.

Morgana swallows hard, swallows again, and when she manages to speak again, she sounds a little more like her usual self. “How?”

“It was holding the essence of your existence,” he explains. “Essentially, you couldn’t die, because part of you was still alive, unharmed. But you were very, very close.”

Morgana hears Mordred say, the flower might save your life, actually, and laughs softly.

“I didn’t mind it too much,” she says honestly. “It was sort of peaceful.”

“Don’t let Elena hear you say that,” Merlin warns, and Morgana startles a little at the mention of her, at the reminder of her. “She did her heal-y magic-y thing and brought you back from the brink of death and all but ordered Morgause to get you to the ship so I could see to you. That was nearly a week ago.” Merlin smiles, fond. “She’s hardly left your side since.”

“Oh,” Morgana says, her voice tiny.

“I think Annis gave up on ordering her to leave and get some sleep and just got Percival to carry her out of here and physically put her in one of the beds,” Merlin continues, shaking his head a little.

Morgana sits up, starts throwing off the covers of the bed, says, “I need to talk to her,” but Merlin’s at her side in an instant, pushing her gently but firmly back into bed.

“Not more than you need to lie here and rest,” he tells her, laughing, “trust me.”

“I’ve been resting for nearly a week,” Morgana argues. “You said so yourself.”

“You’re still not fully recovered,” Merlin says. “I’m serious, Morgana, lie the fuck down or I’ll have no choice but to sedate you.”

Morgana flops back against her pillows with a heavy sigh. “Fine,” she says grumpily.

“You’re just as stubborn as your brother, Arthur,” Merlin informs her, shaking his head, “or maybe he’s as stubborn as you, I don’t know. Regardless: he’s a complete prat, I hope you know that.”

“I’m aware, thank you,” Morgana says dryly, and then, giving a start, “Wait, Arthur and Gwen are here?”

“Of course they are,” Merlin says, like she asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “You were all but dead, they were hardly going to go home without making sure that you got better. Or not,” he adds quickly, swallowing hard, “as the case may have been.”

“Oh,” Morgana says. “That- that makes sense, I suppose.” She huffs a laugh. “I bet Uther’s all but exploded with rage, with the three of us gone.”

“Uther,” Merlin repeats, “as in, King Uther? King Uther who has some kind of evil vendetta against magic-users?”

Morgana nods. “He’s also mine and Arthur’s father,” she informs him, “and if I’m not very much mistaken, Gwen’s father-in-law-to-be,” and Merlin’s eyes go wide.

“Wait,” he says, “you mean Arthur’s not only a prat, he’s a royal prat? Oh gods.”

Morgana laughs, a little sad. “So am I, technically, but I highly doubt Uther will ever acknowledge me as his child, so it’s sort of a moot point.”

Merlin looks sympathetic, like he understands shitty fathers, and maybe he does, Morgana thinks. It’s not like she knows much about Merlin, which is... sad. As irritating as he is, she kind of grudgingly likes him, admires his selflessness and desire to help people.

Before she can ask him about it, however, the door to the medical room opens and Morgause walks in. Her eyes light up when she sees Morgana.

“Sister,” she cries, “you’re awake!”

She walks around the bed to wrap her arms around Morgana and squeeze, gently. When she lets Morgana go, Merlin is staring at them.

“I still can’t get over the fact that you two are related,” he tells them. “I mean, seriously, you don’t look anything alike.”

Morgana chuckles. “Because I look so much like Arthur,” she says, and Merlin tilts his head, says, “Okay, yeah, fair enough.”

“Oh, by the way,” Morgause says, and unhooks the necklace, the Power of Stormhold, from around her neck. She holds it out to Morgana, smiling. “This is yours.”

“Okay,” Morgana says, uncertainly. She doesn’t really understand what Morgause means. Presumably she no longer needs it to claim the throne, and is giving it to Morgana as some kind of memento. “Um. Okay, Your Highness, I suppose.”

Merlin coughs. Morgause just looks amused.

“I wasn’t the first person to touch the stone,” she says, like this should be obvious. “Technically that was Elena, but since she’s not of this world, our rules do not apply to her.”

She looks at Morgana meaningfully, but Morgana’s head is kind of throbbing a little – maybe Merlin had a point about her not being well enough to get up yet, maybe – and she can’t even try and figure out what it might mean.

“Morgana,” Morgause says, very patiently, and then loops the necklace around Morgana’s neck, reaching around her to fasten it. As soon as it brushes Morgana’s skin, the stone glows, just as it has done every other time she has touched it.

“Your Highness,” Morgause corrects, and behind her, Merlin affects a shoddy bow, echoes her words.

“I,” Morgana says, and then nothing else, because she has been utterly robbed of speech.

Morgause touches her arm, says, “I do not resent you for the hand fate has dealt you, sister.” Her mouth twists a little, more fond than sad. “I was raised by druids, and you by a king. I think it’s obvious which one of us would make a better queen.”

Morgana hugs her, then, because she can’t not, because this is sort of everything she’s ever idly dreamed of and knew with a hollow certainty she’d never be able to have.

“Together,” she says fiercely. “We rule together, and we honour our mother with every breath.”

Morgause smiles. “I’d like that,” she says, “I’d like that very much.”

Gwen and Arthur are the next to enter the room, looking delighted to see her. Merlin glares a little at Arthur and Arthur rolls his eyes right back at him and Morgana bites back a laugh. They’d probably have been best friends, in another life, bickering to the very end. Or maybe they’d have just driven each other mad, she can’t be sure.

Elyan edges in behind Gwen, giving Morgana a nod as Gwen hugs her, and Morgana raises an eyebrow at them both.

“You found each other, then,” is all she says, and Gwen’s laugh is brittle.

“That we did,” she says, glancing at her brother. “We had kind of a lot to talk about.”

“I can imagine,” Morgana says, but she sees the way Elyan touches Gwen’s shoulder as she says that, the way Gwen relaxes a fraction after he does.

It isn’t long before most of the crew has piled into the room, bowing slightly and hugging her after they’ve made sure it’s okay to do so, and telling her how glad they are that she’s alive and well. Morgana had no idea they liked her this much. She figured they mostly put up with her presence because of Morgause, and after they got to know her better, Elena. She feels sort of horribly grateful, and more than a little overwhelmed by the unexpected attention.

She can’t help but notice, however, that Elena is nowhere to be seen, and doesn’t know quite how to feel about that fact except vaguely lost. They’ve barely been apart since the day Morgana found her in that crater.

Then, finally, finally, Morgana sees the door swing hesitantly open, a familiar blonde head bobbing above the others, and she inhales sharply.

Gwen follows her gaze to where Elena is hovering at the back of the room and gives Morgana a soft, knowing look. Morgana feels more unguarded than she ever has with Gwen, and she can’t help but wonder if Gwen actually did know about Morgana’s... infatuation with her. She thinks it’s probably likely; after all, Gwen is far more astute than people give her credit for, including Morgana.

Morgana takes a deep breath and looks back at her, as honest as she has ever been, and Gwen smiles.

“We should leave Morgana to rest now,” she says loudly, “shouldn’t we, Merlin?”

“Um,” Merlin says, and Gwen gives him a look, jerking her head towards Elena. “Oh, yes, of course, we should all go. Except Elena, Elena should stay, y’know, because of... reasons.”

Gwen rolls her eyes hard, but says nothing, just helps Merlin usher everyone out until the room is empty except for Elena and Morgana. It’s almost painfully awkward, Elena looking anywhere but at Morgana, still so, so far away, and Morgana feels the ache like a physical pain in her chest.

Then Elena huffs a laugh, says, “They really couldn’t have been less subtle if they tried, could they?” and that seems to break the tension, splinter it enough that it starts to come apart around them.

Elena comes closer, perches on the side of the bed. She’s close enough for Morgana to see that her eyes are red and her face is ghostly pale, and Morgana wants to chastise her for not taking care of herself. She doesn’t think that would be particularly helpful right now, though.

Leaning forward, Morgana wraps Elena in a hug, holding on tight until she feels Elena relax and hug her back, turning her head into Morgana’s neck and taking a few deep breaths.

“Thank you for saving my life,” Morgana says softly, and Elena smiles a little.

“The least I could do,” she says, “seeing as you’ve saved mine twice, now. Um. Your Highness.” She laughs, high and awkward. “That’s going to be hard to get used to.”

“You’re telling me,” Morgana mutters, because she’s- she’s the queen of Stormhold now, and as exhilarating as it feels, it is also deeply terrifying, to think that she is now responsible for an entire kingdom, an entire people. “And what about you? What will you be doing with yourself now?”

“Annis offered me a position on The Caspartine,” Elena tells her, chewing her lip. “I intend to take her up on it. I think. It’s far better than anything else I could do. At least I know I have friends here.”

Morgana nods. “I hope you will be happy here,” she says, and it comes out more formal than she means it to be. She hates this. Of all the things they have been to each other, with each other, they have never been formal.

There’s silence for a little longer, and then: “Grunhilda told me you didn’t care about me,” Elena bursts out, like she’s been sitting on this for a while. Her face immediately burns with shame, but she continues. “When she found me, I mean, she told me you intended for me to cross the wall and turn to dust.”

“I didn’t know that would happen,” Morgana says, honestly, and Elena shakes her head.

“I know,” she says, “I know, Morgana, I was stupid to believe her. But she was so-” Her mouth twists horribly. “Persuasive. But that’s no excuse, I know it isn’t, and I am so, so sorry that my stupidity, my inability to trust you, nearly got you killed.”

“It’s okay,” Morgana tries to reassure her, and Elena says, “No it’s not,” and she looks miserable, on the verge of tears, and Morgana can’t stand it.

“No,” she says, and, “Elena,” and before she can think herself out of it she leans forward to kiss her. It’s clumsy and an awkward angle and Morgana barely grazes her mouth, but it’s enough. Elena grabs her by the back of the neck and pulls her in close, shifting so their mouths meet more cleanly, more evenly, and Morgana all but melts against her.

“Thank goodness,” she mutters, into Elena’s hair, “I thought you were going to punch me.”

“Never,” Elena murmurs, “well, maybe, but only if you were being particularly insufferable.” She pulls back a little, biting her lip. “And this is far from insufferable, trust me.” She rests her forehead against Morgana’s, her eyes very wide and very blue, and says, “I love you, Morgana.”

Morgana swallows, but it’s as natural as breathing for her to respond, “I love you too.”

As if on cue, there is an eruption of cheers from just outside the door, which sounds like they come from approximately the entire crew. They must all have been listening, the bastards.

“I hate every last one of you,” Morgana yells, and Elena just laughs and laughs and laughs.