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

A/N: Wowzers, this is a beast of a one-shot, haha. I have no idea where the idea came from, but hopefully you find it interesting. It's a future fic, so set about five years down the line.

Despite Merlin having no religious associations (a lead which I generally try to follow), I'm placing this story within the Christian Arthurian tradition. There's a reason for it, which is mostly that I like symbolism. :)

A lot of my stories have limited POVs, but I wanted to try something different here. Let me know how you think it works, because I'm working on using a broader POV in my next story as well.

To all my Chuck readers who keep getting alerts for my Merlin stories: um, sorry! But now that you're here, why don't you give it a read? :) I promise that I'll have a new chapter of Collide up soon, as soon as school settles down.

Last thing - please don't favorite without leaving a review. There has to be a reason you like it enough to favorite it, and I'd like to know what it is! :)

"We argued. She said that I don't understand war, that, on the battlefield, the only thing that matters is winning. There are no lovers, no friends, just allies and enemies."

"And what did you say?"

"I told her I loved her."

"I bet she took that well."

"She told me that love was for the foolish and the weak."

"Lucky for her, you happen to be both."

Merlin swallows and gazes out at the bodies littering the field as the battle reaches a breathing point.

The sun, just past midpoint in the sky, beats relentlessly down upon the armies as they fight for purchase of the valley. The intense summer heat is beginning to take its toll on Arthur's knights, clad in plate and chainmail. The armor is heavy and sweltering, and the knights are sweating rivers beneath their hauberks and helms. Their movements, so crisp and fluid in the early morning, have become sluggish.

Mordred's soldiers, though, simply seem to be gaining in momentum as they advance across the valley. They fight like wild animals, stalking their prey noiselessly through the trees, and their fighting style throws the Knights of Camelot, who are so used to order, into confusion. It helps that they wear only light mail, and some no armor at all. A soldier doesn't need armor if his enemy never sees him coming.

They don't even seem to be affected by the heat.

They just keep coming, and Camelot's soldiers keep giving ground.

Merlin sprints down the hill and takes cover behind a tree to get a better look at the battlefield. If he and Arthur have learned one thing from fighting Mordred, it's that your opponent will not always have the same view of honor as you. The Knights are used to open battlefields, visible opponents, rules of warfare.

But Mordred's men are creatures of shadow.

It's all Arthur and his men can do to keep from being cut down like they're made of straw.

A frown graces Merlin's face as he surveys the field. There's a wall of soldiers in front of him, but Gawain and Gareth have left an opening, and he can see Morgause's blond hair as she darts through the trees across the valley.

He rakes his mind for a spell as he edges closer to the soldiers.

He stretches out a hand and takes a deep breath, but before the spell can pass his lips, the world goes black.

Gwen sits on a low stool in the corner of Merlin's tent, mending a tear in his shirt and keeping watch over him.

It's nighttime now, hours since Lancelot had found him unconscious in the grass. While Gaius's initial exam had been inconclusive, they all know Mordred, and they're wary as to what they'll find when he wakes. She had to force a worried Arthur outside to share a meal with his men, and she's pretty sure Lancelot hasn't stopped pacing outside the tent.

Even with the sounds of the camp outside– the men shouting and singing as they go about preparing supper – Merlin's been quiet, barely stirring. She's gotten up just once, to throw a thin blanket over him in the warm night.

He stirs now, slowly crawling to consciousness.

"Morgana?" he calls out, his voice husky.

Gwen looks up and lets a smile cross her lips at his request. She's always the first he calls for. It's sometimes a wonder Arthur took so long to figure it out.

Merlin pushes himself up by his hands and looks around, but his eyes don't settle on anything. There's confusion on his face, and she can tell immediately that something's wrong.

Gwen, taking a seat on the edge of his cot, asks, "How are you feeling? Are you all right?"

He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his hands to his closed lids, and shakes his head. "Where's Morgana?" he demands desperately.

Gwen clasps his hand and drags it away from his face, squeezing his fingers gently. "You're back at camp, Merlin. She's not here. What's the matter?"

"I can't . . . Gwen . . ." he says, looking up at her with empty eyes, "I can't see."

When Arthur hears, his first instinct is to draw his sword and rail against Mordred, and Gwen is the only one who can calm him.

"Anger can't help you now, Arthur," she advises as she places a hand on his forearm and gazes forlornly at Merlin.

The warlock is sitting silently on his cot, knees pulled to his chest as he wallows.

Arthur shoves Excalibur back into its scabbard and whirls around, his cloak swirling around his shoulders. Fury still etched into his face, he protests, "How can I not be angry? This is . . . abominable. They know Merlin is not only my sorcerer and advisor but my friend. I understand how Mordred, even Morgause, could have done this, but –"

He cuts himself off abruptly, the thought too painful to express aloud.

But they can all finish it for him:

Morgana. How could Morgana have let this happen?

Merlin picks his head up and frowns in determination. "I have to go to her," he announces, sliding out of bed before either Gwen or Arthur can stop him.

He takes two steps before stumbling into his writing desk, its top strewn with maps and figures. The impact sends an inkpot crashing to the floor, creating a mess which Gwen instinctively kneels to clean up.

"Steady now," Arthur advises as he catches his friend about the chest.

Merlin shrugs him off, insisting, "I can do it."

Arthur, throwing a heavy look at his wife, nods and lets him go before helping Gwen to her feet.

"Of course you can," he replies. "But are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to, you know. Perhaps it's better if you stayed here for a while."

"No," Merlin says with a vehement shake of his head, "I'm going."

So they send him off, a cloak around his shoulders, a white scarf around his neck, and a walking staff in hand. He's unstable on his feet, but the farther he gets from camp, the steadier he becomes. The soldiers pretend to not watch him go, pretend to not see the tear streaking its way down their queen's cheek, but Lancelot has to swallow the lump in his throat as he gazes at Merlin's lanky form retreating into the shadows of the night.

The hardest thing about war is not the injuries. It's not stumbling off the battlefield with arrows in your armor, or holes in your helm. It's not getting hacked at by men who are out for your blood. It's not waking up in the morning and knowing you may not live through the day. It's staggering into camp at the end of the day and knowing your best effort hasn't been good enough for your friends.

There's nothing Lancelot wants to do more than to retreat to his tent and sleep off this awful day. But there are men – boys, really – sitting around the fire right now who are looking to him for guidance. The only thing he can do is keep his chin up and pretend like he is stronger than this. Even if it is Merlin, his good friend, the first friend he met when he came to this kingdom, Knights of Camelot do not let their worry show.

Mordred's soldiers are asleep when Merlin stumbles into camp, but he, Morgause, and Morgana are still sitting around the remnants of the fire. Morgause stokes the embers with a broken branch as Mordred finishes off a bowl of rice and Morgana stares at the flames contemplatively.

Merlin, using his walking staff to test the terrain ahead, advances slowly. He feels lost, even more so than he did the first day he came to Camelot. The world is black for him, impenetrable darkness, but all he knows is that he needs her. He needs her familiar touch to anchor him.

Morgana picks her head up when she hears him, but her heart immediately sinks at the pitiable sight.

Camelot's greatest sorcerer, reduced to a beggar.

"Emrys," Mordred addresses, not even bothering to stand up. "Stop. Why have you come?"

Morgana frowns; they're not unused to his visits here. If not outright welcoming, Mordred is generally tolerant.

Merlin stops walking, less out of obedience and more out of lack of sureness about the topography. He tugs at the white scarf gracing his neck. "I mean no harm, you see."

"You look tired," Morgause notes. "Come and eat."

Morgana walks over to him and places a hand on his arm in welcome. He stiffens under the touch, unable to determine whose it is.

"Shh, it's just me," she murmurs, reaching up to caress his cheek. She threads her arm through his, leads him to the campfire, and helps him take a seat on a fallen tree trunk. "Here. You must rest."

"I don't want to rest," Merlin replies quietly, his jaw tight with anger. "I just want answers."

Morgause, kneeling down, scoops some rice into a bowl and hands it to Morgana, who presses it into Merlin's fingers and says, "You must eat something first. We'll talk soon."

"I'm not hungry."

Sighing, she sits down beside him and loops an arm around his back. She strokes his back comfortingly as she throws a glance to her sister and leader. Mordred and Morgause, taking the hint, rise and leave for their tents.

"Eat," she urges again, tapping the wooden bowl in his loose grasp.

Irritated, he narrows his eyebrows. "Why? I told you –"

"Because, Merlin," she interrupts tersely. She looks up at the starry sky and takes a deep breath. Calmer, she crosses the fire pit, takes a seat across from him, and says, "Because you fail to see what is right before you."

"That is because I am blind."

A burning creeps into Merlin's chest, like his heart is about to explode for rage, but he came here to hear the only voice that can calm him, to be with the only person who can still the storm within him.

"It's not sight that eludes you," she suggests quietly, "but perception."

He bows his head and squeezes his eyes shut, working through it all. All he wants to do is figure out which sorcerer cursed him, all he wants is for her to stroke his hair and tell him it'll be okay, that this stupid war means nothing, that their love can save them when the end comes.

But his dreams are as empty as the blackness in front of him. He will never be what she is to him, he convinces himself bitterly. She is the very blood within his veins, and what is he? A bedfellow to keep her warm at night. A mere plaything.

"Wait," he chokes out when her words finally reach his heart. He lifts his head. "I thought it was just one of his soldiers. I thought Mordred was the one who ordered it. But . . ." He swallows, finding it hard to even say the words aloud.

Not her. Never her.

Morgana pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them as she watches him struggle with the epiphany. His face is gaunt in the shadows of the fire, the angles of his cheekbones harsher. She had known it would be hard, but seeing the pain on his face, seeing those vacant blue eyes, nearly shatters her heart. She lifts her gaze and swallows down the doubt.

This is necessary. If it weren't, it wouldn't be so difficult.

"Why?" Merlin asks, and his voice cracks as he tries to hold back the sense of betrayal that floods him.

She swipes a tear away from her eye. Quietly, evenly, she states, "You are supposed to keep him humble. How can you do that when you have grown just as arrogant?"

"I haven't, I'm not," he stammers, then demands in a growl, "How could you say that? You know me." He clutches his supper bowl tightly, wanting to throw it but also conscious of the hunger rumbling in his stomach.

"It's true, Merlin," Morgana replies. "He's going to be the greatest king Albion ever knows, but he can only achieve that because of you. But you're a warlock, Merlin, not a god. It is not your place to decide who can wield magic and who can't. It is not your place to decide our fates."

"That is not what we are trying to do! We are trying to build a better Camelot!"

"By stripping its people of their rights!"

"Magic needs regulations, just like anything else."

"That may be so, but if it is true, why do you not follow your own advice? Why does Arthur allow you leniency? Why do you use your magic in ways that others are forbidden?"

Merlin purses his lips. He doesn't think of himself that way. But still . . . it's true that Arthur allows him freer reign than other sorcerers. Isn't it for a reason though? He's the king's advisor, not a servant using magic carelessly anymore. He knows what he's doing. He knows why he's doing it.

Morgana can see the defiance in him. He doesn't want to believe it, doesn't want to see what he is becoming. Slowly, she stands, walks over to him, and leans down. She places a hand on his shoulder and, her mouth near his ear, says, "You are losing this war, and you are losing yourself. I cannot stand by and allow such a regrettable thing come to pass." He dips his head, but she lifts his chin with her forefinger. "I hope you will not simply allow it to happen either."

She is gone before he can stop her.

Merlin sighs, slumping on his seat.

His first instinct is to dismiss her claims as ludicrous. He's the same as he ever was. He fights for Camelot, for Arthur.

But it's Morgana. She is a whirlwind of passion, certainly, but he's come to recognize the moments when she speaks with not only passion but intelligence, the moments when she sets aside her anger in order to plead for something she's in which she's deeply invested.

She wouldn't lie to him, if she truly loves him . . .

A toad croaks mournfully in the distance. He shovels a spoonful of rice into his mouth and mulls over his thoughts. It's not until his fifth spoonful that he realizes he can feel the wood of the bowl, feel the distinct grains beneath the pads of his fingers.

The sensation is so odd and overpowering that it nearly steals his breath. His heart beats faster as he runs a hand along the bowl's rim, the roughly hewn edge cutting into his thumb.

He takes another bite of rice and lets the grains tumble over his tongue before swallowing. He's never tasted food like this before. Food was necessary, sustaining, occasionally even delectable, but never so satisfying, never so full. It's not an especially flavorful meal, but he can taste every the rice, the salt, the spice, each flavor individually.

He may have been stripped of his sight, but the blood pumps through his veins just as it always has, if not more vibrantly.

He's alive, and he's not going to let a thing like blindness keep him from living.

She's awake and waiting for him when he finds his way to her tent. He wants to run to her and declare that he's come to his senses, but somehow he's not sure he can convince her so easily. So instead, he follows her voice as she guides him to her bedding.

"I'm ready," he says softly, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the thin straw mattress.

She has no cot, just a mattress and a mass of blankets on the ground, but somehow he's always enjoyed sleeping here, wherever she is, more than in his own tent. Morgana, studying him as well as she can in the darkness, makes no move to help him and lets him sit there near her feet.

"Ready for what? For bed?" she asks with a smile.

Merlin shakes his head. "You have something to teach me. I'm ready to learn."

He holds his breath as he waits for her response. So used to being the mentor, he can't remember what it's like to be the student.

She throws back the blankets and moves to sit beside him. "Okay," she replies, taking his hand in hers. "Tell me, what do you hear?"

He frowns as he strains his ears to listen. It's nighttime; the camp is asleep. There's nothing.

"I hear stillness."

He feels a shiver of dismay go through her, and the thought renews his resolve.

"Beyond that," she urges. "The layers."

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and concentrates.

"I hear . . . crickets. An owl," he tells her hesitantly. Then, like the grains of wood in the bowl, the sounds around him take on a new life, as if the world is opening itself up and calling to him to finally pay attention. He says, "The stream, I hear the stream."

Morgana smiles proudly, and that's when he hears it.

He leans in close to touch his forehead to her temple.

"I can hear your heartbeat," he breathes.

She slides an arm around his shoulders to pull him close, then presses a kiss to his forehead. Chuckling softly, she asks, "And what do you smell?"

"Mmm . . . fire, spice, sweat . . . straw . . . ale . . . I smell berries, soap . . . cinnamon . . . "

Pleased, she presses kisses to his brow. Her touch is tender, gentle as she guides him to lie down beside her. He curls up and relaxes against her, grateful simply to be somewhere he recognizes, somewhere he can feel safe. She holds him close, stroking his hair.

It's a while before she asks her last question, and when she does, he's ready.

"What do you feel?" she whispers, her breath blessing his closed eyelids.

He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of her, and tightens his hold around her waist, clinging to her to make sure she's flesh and blood, make sure she's not a phantom come to haunt him in his wretchedness.

And he kisses her, her lips supple and chapped beneath his own. He can feel the cracks in them from the summer sun, taste the ale on her tongue.

There's a desperation inside his chest that rises up whenever she's around, but just one kiss can quench it. As much as he tries to deny it, he needs her. He can't breathe properly, can't think properly, without her, without the knowledge that she is.

What do you feel?

He sighs against her lips. "You."

Merlin stirs to consciousness, feeling the wool of the pillow against his cheek, feeling the sun shining on his face. But he doesn't open his eyes, knowing the disappointment that will envelop him when he does.

Then the flap of the tent opens, and his senses leap. His nostrils fill with the scent of freshly-cooked eggs and gruel, mixed with the sweet aroma of cinnamon that he recognizes as Morgana's. The world outside is already alive with movement, sounds of camp life filling his ears as he lies there and tries futilely to stave off the coming of the day.

Morgana crosses the tent on tiptoe, sits down beside him, and sets down his breakfast. He moves slightly as she brushes back his bangs and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead.

"I brought you some breakfast," she tells him softly.

He groans. "I don't want to get up."

"I know," she chuckles, "but you can't stay here. Arthur will be expecting you back."

"Arthur can wait," Merlin grouses good-naturedly as he sits up.

Morgana smiles, but her heart nearly rends in two when he grasps her hand and brings it reverently to his lips. She presses his breakfast plate into his lap.

"Here. You must eat," she urges.

He doesn't realize how hungry he is until he obediently takes a few bites, and then he breaks into a grin because, in addition to the bowl of porridge and the hunk of bread, she's brought him fried eggs, his favorite.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks.

Morgana lets out a sigh and lets her gaze linger on him. "Because one day, you're going to get yourself killed," she explains. Almost reluctantly, she admits, "And I don't want to see that happen."

Merlin stops eating – the spoon halfway to his mouth – and grins. "Morgana," he says playfully, unable to contain the hope that wells up within his heart at her confession, however slight, "I thought love was for the foolish and the weak."

"And so it is," she retorts with a chuckle. "Only a fool would help his enemy."

He reaches out for her hand, and she meets it with her own, lacing their fingers together.

"Then perhaps you are foolish," he concedes, "but you are anything but weak."

Morgana would like nothing better than to believe that she is strong. She tries to be strong – for herself, for Camelot, for Merlin. But too often she is faced with a test so difficult that she can't see a way out without some sort of sacrifice, and she is left to wonder if she's doing any good at all.

Merlin, though, makes her feel as if she can hold the world in her palm.

Which is why looking at him now stirs a sense of shame in her heart. He deserves better than her, but then, who else would push him to become who he can truly be?

She closes her eyes and sighs, and the only thing she can do to ease her mind is kiss him.

Morgause strolls into the tent, her expression dark, and Morgana breaks away from him to regard her sister questioningly.

"What is it?" she asks.

"It's after dawn already. We need to move quickly," Morgause says, jutting her chin at Merlin, "and he needs to return to where he belongs."

"Of course. I'll escort him back."

The blonde woman throws them another curt nod before disappearing again. Merlin sighs and tries to hide his frown from Morgana. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave the only person who won't treat him like he's a piece of glass to be saved from breaking, or a child learning to take his first steps.

But she has duties here, with Mordred and Morgause, and she can't spend all her time looking after him.

So he quietly finishes his breakfast as she readies for the day, pulling on boots and buckling her scabbard and sword to her waist. They don't speak as he goes through the same routine, which takes him slightly longer since she refuses to coddle him by lending a hand.

Even as they walk through camp and out toward neutral ground, neither utters a word. Somehow, though, it's enough to have her hand anchoring his.

Arthur and Lancelot wait for them in the field that separates the camps. Arthur wears a surly expression to show his displeasure, an expression that grows even darker when the two knights espy their friends across the dry grass. Merlin's arm is laced through Morgana's, and he holds his walking staff in his other hand.

Arthur lets out a low growl. "She was supposed to cure him. I thought she was going to cure him," he says, turning to Lancelot with anger blossoming in his eyes.

"Steady, Arthur," Lancelot advises, his arms crossed against his broad chest as he squints into the distance. "Let us wait and see for ourselves. They are . . . close. Perhaps they walk arm-in-arm all the time."

"Then why does he still need the staff?"

Lancelot shrugs. "Gareth fashioned it for him. Maybe he thought he'd want it back."

Arthur simply scowls and paces until the two sorcerers reach the middle of the field, when he takes it upon himself to meet them halfway. Lancelot follows a step behind.

"Merlin, are you okay?" Arthur asks, although he can see right away the far-off look in his advisor's eyes.

"I'm fine, Arthur," Merlin assures him.

"Well, what happened?" the king demands. Turning to Morgana, he says, "I thought you were going to take care of him. I wouldn't have let him go if I had known –"

"Arthur," Morgana cuts him off gently, and the blonde snaps his mouth shut.

Somehow, she can manage to overcome his royal bearing and experience on the throne (however brief) to make him feel like a child again.

Merlin assures him, "There was nothing she could do, but she took good care of me. I promise."

"Of course," Arthur apologizes. "I'm sorry for doubting it. But . . ."

He sighs, letting his broad shoulders relax, and everyone knows what he's thinking.

But how are we going to deal with this?

Surprisingly, Merlin smiles, and just the sight is enough to put his king at ease.

"You're not going to have to take care of me, if that's what you think," the warlock teases.

"Oh, really?" Arthur asks as he gently punches Merlin on the shoulder. "Because I was sure you'd use any excuse to get out of your duties."

A current of relieved laughter runs through the group.

Lancelot steps up and, clapping his friend on the shoulder, says, "We're here for you, Merlin. Anything you need."

"Thank you, Lancelot. At the present, if you could help me to not trip on my way back to camp, I would be most appreciative."

Morgana presses a soft kiss to his temple and whispers a sweet goodbye in his ear before pulling Arthur aside by the elbow.

The king settles his fists on his hips as he regards her with a frown. "Is there really nothing you can do?"

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. But I thought, in light of the circumstances, we could negotiate a respite. This has gone on for months now; our soldiers are exhausted. You could return to the castle, to your people for a few days. They need their king."

He smiles tiredly, and she takes note of the circles around his eyes, the exhaustion in his posture.

"That sounds . . . heavenly. How long?"

"A week?" she shrugs.

"And you've discussed it with Mordred?"

"Not yet."

He nods. "Well, we won't pack up camp just yet, but send a messenger when he makes a decision."

As he turns to walk back toward Lancelot and Merlin, talking animatedly a few yards off, she catches him by a sleeve.

"Arthur."

"What is it?"

"Will you do something for me?"

He scrutinizes her, astonished to see uncertainty in her gaze. She's always been proud, strong Morgana, unwavering in her resolutions. It's strange for him to see her bearing her insecurities so openly.

"Anything," he promises, and means it. She may be fighting for his enemy, but she is still the girl he once knew. Besides, Merlin sees something worth saving in her. And if Merlin believes that, then so does he.

She pauses, her gaze flickering over to Merlin, before she quietly requests, "Take care of him?" Before he can say anything, even promise his agreement, she continues, "I know you, Arthur. I know your compassion, hidden as it is beneath everything else you are. He needs a friend like you, especially because I can't always be there."

"There's a simple solution, you know. You could come back."

Morgana smiles regretfully and stretches onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "My destiny lies along a different path. But I trust you to watch over him."

"You have my word," he smiles as they stroll back to their friends. "In fact, with how admired he is, I doubt I'll have much of a chance. First it will be Gaius, then Gwen, then Lancelot . . . I won't be able to get near him because people will be swarming to fetch him supper, or tie his boots, or describe the scenery to him."

The teasing draws a laugh from Morgana's lips, and she knows instantly that he's going to be all right. As doubtful as she's become about Arthur's ability to transform from the prat she once knew to the legendary king he should be, she knows he can do this. He can look after a friend through dark times.

What remains to be seen is whether he can do the same for himself – whether he can see his own flaws and take it upon himself to change and, in doing so, change Camelot forever.

Camelot's forces return to the castle amid a furor of activity. Arthur's sent word to Thornton, the head steward, and the castle servants are in carefully choreographed chaos as they bustle around preparing for the return of the king and queen.

They had wanted Merlin to ride at the head of one of the supply carts, but after Morgana's chastisement, he's decided that he doesn't want any special treatment. He trusts Theia, his usual mount, to carry him without accident.

The incoming procession of soldiers sends the townspeople into confusion. They hadn't expected their king, so newly crowned and so often away. But now that he's back, they're not quite sure what to do with him. And the sight of Merlin, sitting atop his horse and facing straight ahead with unseeing eyes, shocks them even more.

Luckily, as this is just a respite in the conflict and not a true victory, there is no feast he must attend, no celebration he must endure. They slide off their horses and trudge up the castle steps and to their respective rooms. A decent night's sleep is elusive out in battle, and they're all grateful for warm beds and fireplaces.

Morgana doesn't come, but Merlin hadn't expected her to. After all, she has more important things to do than to look after a blind man. He tells himself that over and over, though he can't pretend it doesn't hurt. Lying in his bed, his face buried in the pillows, he stifles the pain in his heart and turns it into power.

He will conquer this, if only to make her proud.

No one bothers him the rest of the night, except someone (Gwen, he suspects) has a late supper sent up to his room. It's just bread and cheese, but the meat is already cut up, to his dismay. He eats the bread and cheese carefully, paying attention to the tastes, and downs his wine.

He doesn't touch the meat.

Slowly, he learns how to cope. Everyone's so eager to help that he expects he would learn a lot quicker if there weren't so many people always around and asking if he needs something.

Peace. He just needs peace.

But he knows the worry they try to disguise, and has not the heart to turn them away. Still, they let him figure his way through his new world, however dark it may be. He doesn't go anywhere without his walking staff, and each new day heightens his senses. Each new day brings clarity.

Perhaps he is without sight, but he is starting to see things more clearly than he ever did before.

Gaius is the most help. The old physician refuses to go easy on him, but that doesn't stop him from poring over all his books in search of a cure, or some sort of invention that will ease his way. After Merlin appears at breakfast in brown trousers, a blue tunic, and a green plaid jacket (to be honest, no one knows how it appeared in his wardrobe in the first place), Gaius gets his first – and most helpful – idea. Within a few days, he and Gwen have outfitted all of Merlin's clothes with small patches – of different shapes and textures – to help him dress by himself. It takes him another few days to memorize the code, but he finally learns that circle patches are for brown clothes, and satin patches are for red clothes.

One morning Merlin chooses his clothes for himself, takes his time getting ready, and appears at breakfast as well-kempt as he ever did, and he realizes that he's steadily finding his footing.

Merlin shuffles into the throne room, his staff thump-ing rhythmically against the stone floor as he makes his way across the hall. He can tell just by the atmosphere, by the quiet, that it's empty save for Arthur.

The king stands by the open window in the warm summer air, one arm braced against the frame, a wine goblet in the other hand. He's wearing the frown that's never been far from his face since he ascended to the throne, but the arrival of his friend and advisor brings a smile. He's always had trouble with solitude.

"Merlin," he greets. "I thought you and Lancelot were figuring out how to sense arrows just from how their feathers sound or something equally ridiculous and difficult."

Merlin chuckles. "That was this morning. I noticed that you were conveniently absent."

"That's because I don't fancy being blindfolded and getting stuck by arrows all morning, thank you very much," he teases.

"What's the matter? I thought you'd want to show me up. After all, the great King Arthur can do anything his former manservant can do, can't he?"

Laughing, Arthur shoves him by the shoulder. "Okay, you're smiling too much. Now I know you have bad news."

He pulls up a chair and pours a glass of wine for each of them. Merlin sets his staff on the ground before sighing and taking a seat. Leaning his head back, he closes his eyes.

He and Arthur have much to discuss, but right now he could do with a few moments of calm.

Arthur smiles slightly and takes a sip of wine as he watches his friend rest. It's been too long since the kingdom was at peace, too long since he's had a moment to simply relax. He rubs at his temple with a frown. They're so young still. Only a few years ago, they had barely a care in the world. Sure, a monster would attack Camelot every once in a while, and he and Merlin would spend a few days chasing it, but for the most part, life was good.

Now, though, life is . . . complicated.

The evidence is right there, in Merlin's creased brow.

But in Merlin's case, it's not just the kingdom weighing on his shoulders.

"Is it Morgana?" Arthur asks.

Merlin opens his eyes sleepily and questions, "What do you mean?"

"I know you think I'm oblivious, but I'm not completely stupid," the king chuckles. "Since this all started, a week hasn't gone by that you haven't seen her."

Merlin doesn't answer, simply fiddles with the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

"Then you still do, now that you're . . . ?" Arthur prompts.

Merlin smiles. "You can say it, Arthur."

"I just meant . . . doesn't it hurt? To be with her and not be able to see her? I can't imagine what it would be like to never behold Gwen again, to feel her hair, feel her kiss, but not be able to see her face."

Merlin shrugs, seeming entirely unfazed. "She's taught me a new way of seeing, that's all."

"Merlin," Arthur says authoritatively, "I'm your closest friend. You don't have to prove to me how brave you are; I know that already."

The warlock sits back in his chair with a sigh. "It's true that I can see her in a different way now, but you're right . . . I'm scared. I'm scared of losing that picture I have of her in my mind, that it will fade too quickly. I can live with the rest, but if I lose that . . ."

"Merlin . . . I wish there were something I could do."

Merlin takes a long sip of wine before saying quietly, "You can be a great king."

"Is that even going to matter?" Arthur scoffs, shaking his head. "Is any of this going to matter at the end of our lives? What's the point of this suffering if we don't make something out of it? I want to be able to come home at the end of the day, and kiss my wife, and feel like I've made a difference. I know you understand that, because you've been fighting for the same thing." Leaning back, he stares at the ceiling in frustration. "I've waited years now for the power this throne can give me, so why do I feel so useless?"

Merlin knows full-well how the aggravation and disappointments build up day by day. But the fact that Arthur is still out there each day, fighting for something, keeps him from giving up.

He smiles reassuringly and says, "It will matter. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday, soon, the differences we are making now will show."

"I know that, but what are we really doing, Merlin? I thought we were fixing Camelot, but maybe it was never broken to begin with."

"We can't go back to the way it was under your father, Sire, but . . . maybe we simply need to go about it a different way."

"Like changing our perception?"

"Exactly. You haven't even been on the throne for a year yet. Maybe we don't have to reinvent everything right away." Merlin leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and says emphatically, "The people are confused about magic. Their king is off fighting a war most of the time. They need guidance right now."

"So we go back to square one, you mean. Take it a day at a time."

"Yes."

Arthur gazes uncertainly at his advisor. There's tentative hope in his voice when he asks, "A truce with Mordred then?"

"That'd be a start, yes."

"Okay," agrees Arthur, nodding his head as imagines what this can be like – what Camelot will soon become. "Yes, let's do it right this time."

Merlin pulls his cloak more tightly around himself as he ascends the stairwell that leads up to his chambers. It's the thick of winter, and the bitter chill of the season hangs heavily in the air. Even the torches burning in the sconces do little to dispel the coldness of the night.

He slips into his room without a sound, shuts the door, and pauses when he senses a fire blazing in the hearth, when he senses her.

Morgana sits in the corner, waiting for his return. A smile comes to her lips when he walks through the door, staff in hand.

"Hi," she greets in a low voice, rising to meet him.

"Hi," he smiles as he leans his staff against the wall and wraps his arms around her waist. "What are you doing here?"

She cups his cheek and presses a soft kiss to his lips. "I wanted to see you. Didn't you want to see me?"

"Of course," he chuckles.

Caressing his cheek lightly, she remarks, "You look tired."

"Well," he shrugs, "we've been busy."

"Busy creating a kingdom, I see," Morgana teases lightly as she pulls him over to the window, where she can see glowing hearth fires and hear the faint sounds of the town.

Despite the late hour, the townsfolk are alive with energy. Children run about, their delighted laughter coloring the air as they decorate doors and walls. Morgana takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet aroma of incense. People have already begun to burn Lucy Fires.

Merlin buries his head in her shoulder. "A better one, I hope."

"Yes, a better one," she agrees softly, pressing a kiss to his hair. "You have a lot to be proud of."

Sighing, he drags himself away from her, leans his elbows on the window sill, and rests his head in his hands. The winter wind washes over him, cooling the ache in his head. "I have a lot to be thankful for. This wouldn't be happening, Camelot would still be floundering, if it weren't for you."

"That's not true. You and Arthur would have righted your course eventually."

"Eventually, but how long would it have taken without your guidance?"

"There is no shame in accepting help. In fact, there is honor in admitting your wrong steps. What you and Arthur – and Gwen and Lancelot and everyone – have done is proven yourselves worthy of greatness."

Accepting the compliment gracefully, he takes her hand, pulls her over to the bed, and sits down. She collapses onto his lap, snaking her arms round his neck and touching her forehead to his as he holds her gently around the waist.

"Tell me," he requests softly, almost pleadingly. "Tell me what our new Camelot is like."

"You already know," she assures him with a kiss to his temple. "When you hear how loudly people cheer for Arthur as he rides through town, you know the strength of his people's affection. When you smell the pungent scent of supper as you stand on the parapets in the evening, you know that every family is well-fed. When you accept handshakes from men, and kisses from women, and hugs from children, all of whom wish to thank you, you know that you are one of the main reasons Camelot is on its way to its former prosperity. This kingdom is alive and well because of your faith. How can you not be proud of that?"

"I am," he says, his smile bright in the moonlight. The smile fades slightly as he lies down and pulls her with him. "I know it's far from perfect, but Arthur's Camelot is not the one you knew under Uther. You don't have to be afraid to come back."

Morgana curls against him, sliding a leg over his and burying her nose in his neck. She inhales deeply, inhales his intoxicating Merlinness she loves so much. "I know. But I have made this choice for myself."

"Of course, but you can change your mind," he tells her simply as he twirls a lock of her hair around his forefinger. "I did it for you, you know. That has to mean something to you."

"It does. More than you know. You must understand that it's not easy for me to stay away."

"Then stay with me tonight."

She chuckles softly, the reaction blowing a warm puff of air onto his neck. "Perhaps tomorrow. You are tired, and tomorrow is St. Lucia Day. Arthur will want you to attend. You must rest."

"I don't need rest, just you," he informs her cheekily.

Sitting up slightly, she swats him gently on the shoulder and teases, "One of these days, I'll find someone who can sweet-talk me properly."

"What would you want with a dandy like that?"

"You mean when I can have you in all your adorable awkwardness?"

Merlin grins. "Exactly."

Morgana takes a deep breath and sobers, letting the smile linger on her lips. "Still, I'll come again tomorrow. Tonight you must sleep."

She throws her legs over the side of the bed and sits up.

"Fine," he answers, "but I'll hold you to your word."

"Then hold me to it," she promises as she leans down to kiss each of his closed eyelids. "Sleep well, my love."

He settles in to sleep, and, slowly, she gathers up her outer cloak. By the time she throws it over her shoulders and shuts the window to keep out the draft, he's already slumbering peacefully. She pauses at the doorway to gaze back at his sleeping form.

Whispered words tumble from her lips, words heard by none but felt by all.

"You're very brooding tonight," Morgause remarks conversationally. "Does your dark mood have to do your sorcerer's sight being mysteriously restored?"

Morgana frowns from where she's standing by the window, but before she can say anything, Mordred looks up from the book he's reading and says, "Leave her alone, Morgause. You're distressing her."

"She needs to know what she has given up," the older woman presses. Turning to Morgana, she asks, "Do you, sister? Do you realize that you have robbed us of an easy victory? Relatively easy, at any rate. Without your sorcerer, Pendragon has nothing."

"That isn't true," Morgana argues quietly. "He is a great king. Even you can see that."

"Great he may be, but his forces are no match for ours. Now that you've taken Emrys under your wing though . . ."

Morgana turns to regard her sister. "Say it," she challenges. "There's no need to spare me."

Morgause's brow wrinkles. She says, "What you have done has stopped the battle, yes. You've given your beloved brother the push he needed to become who he was meant to be, yes. But you've also thrown us into a future we cannot recover from. There will be strife, and suffering, and there will come a day when you wonder what it all means."

"I had to do it."

Morgause stands and walks over. She places a finger under Morgana's chin and gently forces her to lift her gaze.

"He will never know your sacrifice, my dear sister," Morgause says in a low voice.

Morgana swallows, shakes her head. "No," she agrees huskily. "He won't."

"We could have ended this. You could have been free; nothing would have stood between you."

"His destiny lies with Arthur. If I had taken that away from him, if I had let them struggle without acting, he never would have forgiven me."

"Then you stand by what you have done?"

Morgana nods. "But I understand that he is my responsibility."

Mordred, staring hard at the pages of his book, says, "So Arthur and Emrys's destiny is to raise Camelot to greatness, and ours is to set them on that path."

Morgana hears his voice in her head when he asks: Must we all be slaves to destiny?

She feels his frustration, understands it probably better than even he can. After all, he's not the one plagued with visions of a future that could have been, visions of a future that will never be.

The truth is that she no longer knows whether her choices are free. Can she run from destiny, or does every step she take send her hurtling towards it even faster? There is no easy understanding, no acceptance. Just constant questioning.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop staring at me," Morgana smiles.

Her eyes are closed, but she can feel his gaze on her. They're lying in a field of wildflowers, the dry summer grass towering over them. There's a pleasant feeling of laziness in the pit of her stomach from the thick afternoon heat.

Merlin laughs, "I can't help it. You're so beautiful."

"And you, my love," she chuckles, "are a flatterer."

"Hum," he murmurs, burying his nose against her neck, "then an enchanted flatterer."

Morgan opens her eyes to gaze at him and runs a hand through his hair.

She sometimes gets so caught up in the details that she forgets what's right in front of her. She's been looking at this the wrong way, attacking the problem from the wrong side.

It doesn't matter that he will be written down in history as Arthur's right hand and the greatest sorcerer who ever lived. It doesn't matter that her role in all this (and Gwen's as well) will be forgotten and obscured in favor of the roles the men will play. It doesn't matter that she must throw in her lot with the losing side in order to save Camelot.

As she gazes at him, takes in the beautiful contrast between his black hair and his pallid complexion, she realizes that those futures she was seeing weren't real at all. She hasn't destroyed their chance at happiness by helping him fulfill his destiny; she's simply changed the surface of things.

After all, nothing is set in stone. The future is not yet written.

She presses her lips to his brow before settling down again and looking up at the dazzling blue sky. Watching a puffy white cloud meander its way across her line of sight, she murmurs, "I was wrong, you know."

Hearing the seriousness in her voice, he pulls away and props himself up on an elbow. He sucks in a breath and, reverently, reaches out to brush a lock of hair from her forehead.

"About what?"

She sighs. "Love isn't foolish, or weak."

"No?" he asks, fighting and failing to keep a grin from his face.

She tilts her head to look at him. "No. It's . . . pure, strong."

And you, she tells him, are the strongest person I know, and your love is deeper than the greatest ocean.

And you are the wisest, he replies.

She laughs. "An enchanted flatterer, indeed."

Merlin lies back down beside her, laughing and protesting that one who speaks the truth is not sycophantic, merely honest.

She smirks. Perhaps they fit. He speaks too much truth and she too little.

She may have taught him what it is to truly see, but he's been the one to illuminate her failings and enhance her sight.

He's been the one to show her who she truly is. She is of the wind, of the earth, of the stars that shine in the nighttime sky.

She is Morgana – sorceress, seer, lover, dreamer.