A/N: I was writing onesided Mergana. This happened. I don't understand how, but it did…and I change person a bit through. Oh well. I'm a lazy editor, and hopefully it isn't too jarring.

Disclaimer: I dinnae own the show Merlin!

Morgana grew up in Tintagel, with a father and a mother and letters from a sister who lived in some faraway place, and whom she had never met. She grew wearing fine dresses and sitting in the banquet hall, letting the latest prince twirl her around and jabber about weaponry while she contemplated how, if he was this bad at dancing, his footwork should be horrible enough that she could unbalance him in one blow, and then stab him. Or slice his tongue off, if he did not shut up soon.

Morgana grew up in the castle by the sea, where waves crashed on the rocks beneath them and a fine spray dusted her face with salt when she stood by the cliffs. She grew playing on the slippery rocks at the bottom of the cliffs, ignoring warnings from frantic governesses to not go so near the sea. She hardly listened to her father when he lectured against her exploration of those rocks, and never slipped off them.

Morgana came close, many times. There were days when she scrabbled against the rocks, fingers tearing on barnacles and she imagined water battering her body against hard stone, her bones breaking and the pressure keeping her from breaking to the surface. Those were the nights when she sat on her father's knee by the fire in the great hall and clung to him.

But she did not tell him. It was not Morgana's nature to admit she nearly fell. Not to Gorlois, King of Cornwall, and not to Queen Lisanor, who was a distant figure to her daughter. Morgana would spend nights curled on her father's knee listening to him tell stories of a long-estranged king and their escapades. Queen Lisanor oft left the room during these stories, and hardly ever looked to the daughter born in wartime, while her husband was away.

It didn't unduly bother Morgana. Her golden haired mother was simply there, and as she gave no objection when Gorlois arranged for Morgana to learn swordplay, and when Morgana wore out governess after governess with wild abandon, Morgana did not much notice her mother.

It was perhaps not the most normal of childhoods, but it was a happy one.

Even with the dreams. The ones that came every night, sometimes with fire, sometimes with lightning, sometimes with glittering gold and screams, other times only with whispers. The whispers scare you more, because you can almost hear what they say.

On those nights you rush to your father's bedchamber and clamber into his bed, let him rub your back and soothe you. You never saw the worried look in his eyes, or the way he wrote to wherever your sister was next day for advice.

But no childhood can last forever. Adulthood comes in realizing that though these foolish princes step on your feet, some are handsome, and you enjoy letting them stutter out compliments. For sure it gets boring, but they're more entertaining than the lecherous old men.

It also comes when your father says on one windy evening, as the waves crash higher up the cliffs than they normally do, that you should be married soon.

Everyone seated at the table freezes. Your mother, who is there despite that she normally takes her meals privately in her chambers. You, with your spoon of soup halfway to your mouth. Even your father freezes, looking as if he cannot believe he even dared to broach the topic.

"Excuse me?" You question him. Lisanor begins to nervously fold her napkin. Gorlois coughs.

"Morgana, you're a maiden in the prime of youth. You've been allowed to stay here this long, but the world will not pass Cornwall by forever." He looks old. For the first time you realize that there is more white than grey in his hair.

"I don't want to go!" You say before you can think of a more mature response.

"Morgana…you knew this was coming." No, you didn't.

But maybe…you think of the increase in letters to your father, the portrait of you that was taken, the way the men who visit Tintagel have been coming more often. You sag, and feel strangely afraid. You don't want to marry.

"I won't marry one of those simpering boys that come here!" You cannot imagine spending a lifetime with one of those fools. Gorlois sighs.

"There's King Lot…" Your mind flashes to the last time you saw that King-a paunchy man who was beginning to go bald and who eyed you in a way that made you shudder. He's rich, and powerful, but to marry him, to bed him…the idea repulses you.

"He's at least twenty years my elder!" Gorlois's mouth twists up wryly. It occurs to you that your mother's golden locks are only starting to grey. Your cheeks color. "Perhaps it works for some. But father, Lot is old and balding and fat."

"There's Prince Arthur." Gorlois says speculatively. "You've never met him, but he's your age and by all reports a handsome boy, and though we rarely talk, King Uther used to be a dear friend to me."

"No." You are so unused to hearing your mother say anything declaratory, you don't realize who spoke. But it is Queen Lisanor, and she looks defiant. You stare at her, trying to close your mouth. "Not Camelot."

"But dear…" Father is as unsure of what to do as you are. Your mother lifts her chin in a way that makes her almost resemble you, and shakes her head.

"King Uther will never allow her type." You blink back and forth at the both of them, feeling confused. "He doesn't know about her, but that would certainly change if she's waking up in the night next to his son screaming about the future!"

"Lisanor." Your father says sternly. She shakes her head again.

"You will either kill her or force her to live a lie. No." Your father sighs, and you look between them, in confusion. What does Uther not know of you? You suppose you're lucky they want to marry you off to his son, not him.

"What are you two talking about?" You ask. Gorlois gets to his feet. Lisanor follows, a stubborn cast to her face that is so unfamiliar you can hardly believe this is your mother.

"Nothing." She answers for your father. You turn pleading eyes to him. Your father can never deny you when you look at him this way, and he closes his eyes as if about to make a decision he knows is bad.

"We'll tell you in the morning. Go to bed." You go to bed, and have a dream more awful than any thus far. You dream about a beheading. You dream it from the perspective of the guilty, and wake with a scream.

The hangings around your bed blow away, the window shatters, and you huddle in your bed realizing that you have magic. It isn't until the moon rises that you can unfreeze your limbs.

You stalk to your father's chambers in your silk nightgown, not bothering to dress properly. You don't care if there are servants with their eyes popping around every corner, or about the maid who scurries after you pleading that you wait.

"I'm magic!" You burst into his chambers and ask incredulously. Gorlois stares at you. Your mother is there as well, in a robe and with her hair ruffled. You ignore all that and choose to focus on your father. "No one told me!"

"We didn't know." He says. You toss your head and laugh. "Your dreams. We couldn't tell if they were seer's dreams or not, they were too vague. Your sister has the gift, but we prayed you did not."

Already magic is something you feel ashamed of. You swallow and remember the thousands of tales of Uther beheading sorcerers, burning witches, drowning children.

"Don't make me go to Camelot." You whisper. "I dreamt I was being executed."

"Oh, Morgana, we would never do that." Your father comes round the table and wraps an arm around you. He looks at you with reassuring eyes. "You'll go to study. To become an Enchantress, with Morgause."

"Oh." You breathe deeply. "Where?"

"There is a place called the Isle of Bardsey. It is said that the greatest of all the practitioners lives there, and it is a place Uther Pendragon cannot yet touch." Your father looks sad. "It is a place of learning. But it is far."

That doesn't surprise you at all. After all, Morgause has never visited.

"I'll go." You do not want to be here. Your mother has not looked you in the eye. Your father has lied to you, kept things from you, and you trusted him. All the nights you ran to him with nightmares, and he never thought to tell you?

It feels like betrayal. In later years, you will think that you did not even know what betrayal was back then.

You are sent to the Isle without much. You go riding your white palfrey, but he shies when you near the lake. At that point, the guards your father sent with you have gone. They scattered in the forest you rode through to get to the lake, and it did not surprise you. The letter from Nimueh, who is master of this place, said you had to come alone.

You dismount and frown. There is a lake, one with a surface like glass. It's unmarred, serene, utterly unlike the sea you know. You can swim, but you don't fancy striking out alone into a magic lake. That's how all the moronic knights in the stories die.

But there's a boat. You hesitantly walk up to it. It's an unstable looking craft, with a scrap of cloth for a sail and what might be scorch marks along the side. It's broad enough for you to sit comfortably, and it's the only transportation.

"Is this it?" You say to no one. The letter claimed there would be transportation provided, but you expected more along the lines of a ship. It's being kind to call this pathetic thing a boat.

Unfortunately, there's nothing else. You walk along the water's edge for a time, searching for some other way, but the lake appears to go on forever. Besides, mist is thickening. You don't want to get lost in the fog now, and have to be rescued.

You plan on entering this Isle in a way befitting a Princess of Cornwall.

So you climb into the boat as gracefully as you can. There's no way the stallion can come with you, so you press a kiss to his forelock and murmur your thanks. Once your weight has settled on the seat, the boat moves.

You just restrain a squeak. The boat is gliding from the shore, leaving barely a ripple of wake on the glasslike lake. You grip the folds of your dress with one hand, and your sword with the other. The fog rolls in behind you, and the shoreline disappears.

But you reach the Isle quickly enough. Despite how the tattered sail doesn't move, the boat must have traveled quickly. Then again, you had no way of measuring distance. For all the you can see through the fog, the shore might be ten feet from you.

There to meet you is a blonde woman, who looks somewhat like your mother. She wears a red dress, and walks through the mists like she would know where to place her feet if she went blind.

"Morgana!" She calls. She holds out a hand and helps you from the boat. A tingle goes through your legs when your feet touch the grass. "Welcome, sister."

"Morgause." You say softly. You swallow. "Then this is the Isle of Bardsey?"

"Indeed. Oh sister, I have waited for you!" Morgause looks excited. Her eyes shine. "You will study under Nimueh, with me to help you. She is the highest of all the Enchantresses here, and her power is unequalled by any."

"Oh, really?" You aren't sure how to respond to this burning enthusiasm. You're just tired and damp and stiff, having ridden all day and then gone on a boat ride wherein your every muscle was taunt.

"Of course, you must be tired." Morgause waves a hand. "I'll show you to your chambers."

You follow her. The boat reverses, and you tell yourself there's no reason to feel trapped.

The rooms are gorgeous. You have a bed with silk sheets, just as you had at home, and a window far above a grassy field. All of your things are there, and you decide to just accept the magic. No reason to point out that it would have been easier to just bring you with the damned trunks, and spare you the awful boat ride.

Morgause leaves you to go to her own chambers, after instructing you to go to Nimueh's study in the morning. You nod and barely have time to strip from your dress before collapsing on the bed.

Your dreams are not at all pleasant. You dream of wartime, of fluttering banners and yelling and the pained groan of someone important, who just died. When your eyes snap open, the morning light is shining through the window, and you feel like you can't breathe.

You dress quickly, in an old blue gown that isn't enormously fancy. Having made yourself presentable you determinedly walk down corridors, and come to the realiztion that you have absolutely no idea where Nimueh's study is.

That's rather a setback. There are no convenient servants to ask directions from either, or other…you suppose you're a student now. You drift through empty hallways, trying to stay where the torches look used. That's really the only indicator of where people often walk.

You've been alone for at least half an hour, just walking, so it your collision with a stack of books is utterly unexpected. You grunt-unwomanly, yes, but let's see any Princess be hit with a stack of books and not make some noise-and fall down.

"Are you okay? Sorry, wasn't expecting anyone to be around." The books have all fallen to the ground around you, and the voice is welcome. A man is crouched before me, his hand extended.

The first thing that strikes you is that his eyes are blue. As blue as the sea before the sunset back at Tintagel, as blue as the silk in your dress, as blue as the depths of the lake. That temporarily jolts your mind off track.

"Ah, yes, I'm fine." You nearly stutter. He grins at you, and your entire mind melts for just a moment, because it's almost blinding. He's not handsome like the princes you had paraded before you at Tintagel, but he has those blue, blue eyes, and the way his face is lit up is more pleasant to look upon than anything you've seen.

"Oh, good." He looks relieved. You take the hand he extends to you, and he pulls you to your feet. "Sorry, but I was hauling these around and didn't think anyone would be wandering around this part of the castle."

He crouches and gathers the books together, then gets to his feet with a grunt. You smile slightly, just because he looks so funny. The books in his arms go higher than his forehead, and he needs to poke his head around them to look at you, which makes him go off balance and almost spill the lot of books again.

"Here." You say, half laughing, and take three off the top. He smiles at you. "Don't worry about it, I was actually hoping for someone to come along. Do you know where Nimueh's study is?"

"Yeah." He shifts the books. "I'll show you the way, it's easy to get turned around in this place."

That's certainly true. Tintagel was a box on a spit of land surrounded by water. This castle is full of twists and you bet there are secret passages. That's sort of intriguing, sort of terrifying.

"Thank you. What were you doing with all these books?"

"Oh, I'm delivering them to Mary Collins." Merlin shrugs. "She's an older woman" you want to laugh, because he sounds so polite "and she's helping Sophia with a project."

"Oh." That's lost you. He notices your expression.

"Sorry, I should have guessed you were new here. They're both Enchantresses, Mary Collins is sheltering here since her son died in Camelot, and Sophia while her father does business in the mortal world."

"Are we not in the mortal world?" This was not mentioned in Nimueh's letter.

"Well, no. We're sort of in a pocket in the other world-not really in Avalon, but outside of mortal time." He smiles sheepishly. "I didn't realize no one explained to you."

"No, they didn't." You say faintly. Then you pull yourself up. You are a daughter of Cornwall. You will not be cowed. "Thank you for telling me."

"My pleasure." From the way he smiles, it really is. And not pleasure like the people at banquets who live to tell others all the information they have that no one else knows, actual happiness to help you. "Here's Nimueh's study. If you need anything else, just call me."

"I will." You like talking to him. It's quite possible you'll find yourself a reason to find him, regardless of how much you actually need his help. "Wait, I haven't heard your name yet."

He smiles at you again. "I'm Merlin."

"My name is Morgana." You turn to the doors. They're rather large, and made of stone, carved into a design that reminds you of vines and rain. Merlin waves at you, and you push open the doors before the surge of courage that came from that wave can depart.

You walk in, and the first thing that you notice is that Nimueh is beautiful. Her hair is black as midnight and bound behind her head, leaving her lovely features bare. She's pale, with blue eyes like Merlin's but not nearly as deep, not nearly as beautiful. There's arrogance in those eyes.

"Princess Morgana." She's standing before a stone basin. Morgause is with her, both in bloodred dresses. Her head tilts as she scrutinizes you. "Was your journey taxing?"

"Not at all." You step fully into the room and close the door behind you. "Merely surprising."

Nimueh's lips curve up in a cold smile. "I'm glad. I have taught your sister for many years, and she has great skill. I hope you can match her."

"I shall try." You tip your head up and meet Nimueh's cold eyes. Your own are grey like the morning sky, and her smile widens.

"Oh, you are a fighter. Good. I don't need milksops." You raise your eyebrows. Nimueh beckons you to the basin. As you go into the room, you think that it's like a cave. There's a stone chair and another stone table. Stacks of books are lined against a wall, and an archway opens into the grassy meadow you see from your own window, but there is no ornamentation not already carved in the stones.

It's a grim place. Nonetheless, you go to your sister's side and watches Nimueh swirls the waters.

"What do you see?" She asks. You squint. 'Nothing' is probably not the answer she wants.

"Red." You finally say. Nimueh makes a pleased noise.

"Not a bad start. What is the red?" You stare. Beads of sweat stand out on your brow. It's difficult, whatever you're doing, and your senses strain. Something flickers within you. A hand smacks your arm. "Stop."

You gasp and touch the sleeve. There must be a red mark beneath it. "What?"

"You were trying to influence it, bring the events closer to the surface with magic. It would have hurt you." Nimueh says simply. You remember that warm flickering, the spot of warmth in your chest.

It felt good.

"Then what am I to do?" You respond. "I was accomplishing nothing by staring, and I wasn't even aware I was trying to change it!"

"I know. You need discipline. You need focus." Nimueh turns away. "I think we'll switch to another area. But first…" She whispers a spell, and the characters engraved round the basin hover in the air before you. "Copy these."

Morgause hands you paper. You write the characters in the flowing hand that took hours to learn, back in Tintagel. Morgause makes a pleased noise at your penmanship. Nimueh says nothing, but there is satisfaction in her eyes.

"Excellent. Identify that language. Now come with me." You and Morgause go with her, and you spend the afternoon with your fingers in the dirt, trying to get that warm feeling back in your chest. It refuses to come.

But the blood red poppies Nimueh calls from the ground are quite nice to look at, as are the little flowers that cover Morgause's thorny vines. You trudge back to your chambers with Morgause, feeling dirty and tired and like a failure.

"Don't worry." She says. Morgause touches your arm. "Nimueh is hard teacher, but she's fair, and you're doing well." You clutch the scrap of paper.

"Is it always like this?" Morgause shrugs.

"It varies. We do a lot of independent study. I'll have to show you to our library, but later." You sigh in relief. "There'll be a bath drawn for you. Go bathe."

You stagger into your chambers, and there is a bath drawn, full of steaming hot water. You undress and ease into it, feeling relief course through you. Gods, you adore a hot bath. Quite apart from needing to be cleaned off after all that time in the dirt, you have an odd aching in your bones that's never been there before.

After another few days of lessons with Nimueh, wherein you finally realize that the red is blood, Morgause shows you the library. You like your sister, but the burning look in her eyes makes you vaguely uneasy, and the constant way of ordering you around she has can grate your nerves.

But she obviously cares for you, and that's nice. You haven't seen Merlin at all, and you can't crane your around corridors to try to get a glimpse of him whenever you spot a flash of what might be his brown coat. It would be undignified.

Back to the library. It's impressive. There are massive oak bookshelves, nearly groaning under the weight of the tomes. A few people sit on comfortable looking chairs-a girl holding a plain wooden staff, an old man, a man whose age you can't judge because of his scarred face, and Merlin.

"Tell me, who is that?" You gesture covertly to Merlin. He's buried in a thick book, and doesn't notice you or Morgause.

"I believe he's one of Nimueh's aides." The structure here is simple. Nimueh rules uncontested, and most of the old men and women go about their business. There are other students, though not many, and you and Morgause are the only ones who study under Nimueh herself. There are visitors, sometimes those fleeing persecution, sometimes people who need help. And there are aides, people who just hang around and help out. "A peasant before he ended up here."

"Peasants have magic?" You hate how arrogant it sounds. But it's true that of the people here, Merlin is the only one who doesn't wear silks. Morgause laughs at you.

"Oh, yes, don't you remember the long treasured image of a witch in a hut, cackling over a fire?" Her gaze flicks over Merlin. "I know he cleans, abysmally. Also fetches and carries. Not enough talent to have a teacher."

Oh.

"Why?" Morgause eyes you. You smile the way being a princess has taught you to smile. Like nothing matters when everything does.

"He gave me directions. He was nice to me."

"He's certainly kind enough." Morgause says, her tone something between contempt and disdain. You don't think he deserves that tone, not with those eyes. Then it strikes you.

Morgause has no respect for kindness.

"Yes. Show me that book of runes." You turn your back on Merlin. He's quite clearly a nobody. You are obviously a Princess, and going to be an Enchantress. You don't see him look up from the book and then back down.

Being an Enchantress means many things. One of them is, apparently, star searching. You don't fully understand what that means, but Nimueh gave you a star chart and told you not to sleep until it was filled out, and Morgause is gone from the Isle. She said something about business with mortals.

So you have to navigate the field in the dark, trying to figure out a way to be able to both gaze up at the stars and write on the chart at the same time. It's uncomfortable, and you're cold despite your cloak.

"Morgana?" You start. It's just Merlin, smiling at you. He cocks his head. "Erm, what are you doing?"

"Star searching." You promptly reply. Then you sigh. "And failing."

"C'mon." Merlin's smile turns blinding. "I'll show you up to roofs, you get a much better view from there."

Roofs?

You follow Merlin, and he helps you climb up to a surprisingly comfortable gable. Well, actually he shows you where it is and you climb up then catch him before he can plummet to his death. Merlin is rather clumsy.

But you're both on your backs staring up at the stars without any more injury than a banged elbow belonging to Merlin. The view of the skies here is magnificent. Merlin grins at you across the roof, and your answering smile is natural.

"That up there is Regulus." He points into the sky. You follow the line of his finger, and begin filling in dots on the map. Merlin is a startling adept teacher, and between the two of you, the assignment is finished easily.

You really don't want to leave the rooftop. It's like being in another world, where you and Merlin are the only people in the entire world. Merlin begins telling you about other constellations. You listen with half your mind, and with other half you study the way moonlight illuminates his cheekbones.

"What?" You ask, when he stops talking to just look at you. "Don't tell me that I've smudged ink over my cheeks."

"No. Just…I like being here with you." You like it too. You like more than you could ever admit. So you push yourself up to your elbows and prepare to leave. Merlin catches your elbow. "Wait. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for. It's just that I have to show this to Nimueh in the morning, and I should sleep…" You trail off. Merlin looks so sad. "Oh, stop looking like a puppy."

"You think I look like a puppy?" Merlin sounds like he isn't sure whether to be amused or offended. You laugh.

"Not really. More like a…" You study him with mock concentration. Merlin pooches out a lip and makes his eyes bigger. It breaks your poker face. You have to laugh. "Stop it!"

"Stop what?" He lisps. You laugh harder. He reaches out and pulls you closer. "Here, I don't want you falling off the roof. Morgause would murder me."

"I'm sure." You nestle into his chest before you realize you're doing it. At that point, you reason that it would be more awkward to pull away than just stay there, and besides. You're comfortable with Merlin's arm wrapped around you. "She can be aggressive."

"By which you mean terrifying?" There's too much teasing in Merlin's voice him to actually be afraid of your sister. The two of you talk until morning light hits the roof. Then you slip away, taking the chart to Nimueh, and Merlin goes off to do whatever he does all day.

Nimueh raises an eyebrow, but says the charts are perfect. You're pleased. Merlin may have helped you, but you did a lot of that work yourself, and everything you weren't sure of he's taught you.

"Today, we're going to work with flame." Your heart sinks. Nimueh murmurs a few words and suddenly she's holding a handful of flames. You breathe deeply and prepare yourself for a painful lesson.

It's even worse than you imagined. You end up sticking your hand into fires, and giving yourself blisters, and finally Nimueh gives up in disgust. She sends you to your chambers, and it takes all your royal blood to keep you from running from the room.

Instead, you walk with a measured pace, don't give away that your hands are screaming, and keep the lofty expression on your face. You don't even whimper until the door to your chambers is shut, then you fling yourself onto your bed, levitate the pitcher with a word, and pour water all over your hands.

The door is pushed open. You look up, and say sharply "Do you not understand the purpose of knocking?"

"I choose to ignore such proprieties. It's how I express my rebellious side." You snicker despite the pain in your hands. Merlin isn't offended at all by you snapping at him. He kicks the door closed and frowns.

"What happened to you?" You shrug. Merlin is holding two goblets.

"Nothing much. Just a lesson in fire." Merlin winces and puts the goblets on the table. He crosses the room and bends over your hands, frowning. You try to pull back. "Really, I'm fine."

After all, it is not in your nature to admit pain. By the look on Merlin's face, he sees right through you.

"Nimueh has got to find new teaching methods." He grumbles. Merlin covers your hands with his. "Do you mind if I help?"

"Just don't explode my hands." You once accidentally did that, except to a glass ball. Merlin smiles at you. It's not the blinding smile. It's a small, calm, secret smile.

"I promise I won't." He folds both his hands around yours. You frown. His brow crinkles, then smoothes out. Then you fight the urge to jump, because Merlin's eyes turn an impossibly vivid shade of gold, and the hands around yours are warm. You blink down at them, caught off guard. Your hands don't hurt at all.

"There." Merlin sounds satisfied. His eyes go back to beautiful blue, and he takes his hands off yours. There are no blisters on your hands. You hold them up, staring at skin that is flawless once again.

"How did you do that?" He picks up the goblets and shrugs.

"Healing magic. I'm the local physician." You have to smile. Of all the people in this place, Merlin is the only one kind enough to be any kind of healer. You flex your fingers, noting how good your hands feel.

"Thank you." Merlin is absurdly nice. And you shouldn't find that wonderful, because nice people don't get ahead. That's been drilled into you by Nimueh and Morgause every day. "What were you doing up here, anyway?"

"I brought you some mulled mead." Merlin grins and holds out a goblet. You take it and sip from it. The beverage is very good.

"You aren't trying to get me drunk, are you?" You ask. You're kidding, but it's funny to see the panic flash over Merlin's face.

"No! No, of course not, I just thought that you'd be tired and I know this is good and I've heard you have nightmares, and I thought it might help!" He sputters out. You're smiling at the expression on his face, then his words sink in.

"Who told you about my nightmares?" You ask sharply. Merlin picks up his own goblet and drinks from it.

"Nimueh." Merlin shrugs. "But it's common knowledge."

"It is?" He winces.

"You didn't know?" No, you did not. You had that nice little illusion that your troubles were private, and you were free to deal with them in peace! You turn away, draining the goblet. "Morgana, the Isle is isolated, people end up knowing everything about each other-"

"Shut up." You say quietly. Merlin is silent. "Leave me."

"No." You look up at him, startled. "Morgana, I'm sorry to intrude on what may be private, but Nimueh said you needed help. I'm offering it."

"I don't want the help of an exalted servant! Get out!" At that, he leaves. You sit back against the bedcovers drinking mead mulishly. Merlin left his goblet behind, and while it didn't have much, it's enough for you to occupy a goodly amount of time.

How dare he presume to…to help you. What a crime. How offensive.

You sigh and tip the last drop of mead into your mouth. You feel like an ass. But Merlin will probably not mind. Merlin doesn't have an enormous amount of pride. Which is good, because you seem to have vast reserves of it, more than enough to compensate.

The mead is strong stuff. You fall asleep against the headboard in your clothes, and the nightmares come up with a vengeance.

This one is bad. There's Nimueh, all the cruelty she harbors written on her face, and she waves a hand. There's Merlin, blood dribbling from his lips. His blue eyes (still so beautiful) are wide and afraid.

"Dare I ask?" You awake to Morgause. Her arms are folded, and the stern look on her face makes you think of your father. You should write to him sometime. Her gaze slowly travels your mussed hair, the gown you still wear, your bleary eyes.

Morgause's eyes settle on the two empty goblets. You blush.

"Who was here?" A denial is on the tip of your tongue. But Morgause is not at all stupid. You sigh and hope for the best.

"Just Merlin." In your head, you apologize to Merlin for the "just". Morgause's face darkens. "He's my friend."

"That means nothing." Morgause mutters. You lean over to touch her hand.

"Morgause, relax. Merlin came over to check on me. We drank some mead. He left. I was lazy. That's it." Morgause frowns and pushes a lock of hair from your face. She looks concerned.

"I know, but Morgana…well, I worry for you. You sometimes seem on the verge of doing something exceedingly foolish." Your mouth opens and closes. The real possibility of sleeping with Merlin hasn't crossed your mind until now.

But there's no denying it's something you would like to do. You may be an untouched virgin, and obligated to stay that way until your father finds a man who'll take an enchantress as a wife and is up to your standards, but you know what goes on in a marriage bed.

You briefly entertain the thought of being married to Merlin. You can see him and his sweet smile, fumbling around with a tray of food. Playing with a dark haired child. His bare back illuminated by sunshine streaming through a window, as he sleeps beside you.

Nothing but an idle fantasy. You look at Morgause like a Princess, and summon cold indifference to your voice. It's a talent that you've used to get rid of the more bumbling princes.

"I am the daughter of King Gorlois of Cornwall." That's all that needs saying. Morgause nods. You have not forgotten who you are. Who you are is not a woman free to drink in your chambers with a man who cleans floors.

Let alone spend nights alone with him.

A/N: I originally thought this would be a 3 shot, then it…morphed. Lisanor was the name of Arthur and Guinevere's daughter (a person who only exists in a few legends), and since Queen Igraine was Morgana's mother in original legend, I just chose her name cuz it was pretty. The Isle is Bardsey is one of the many places Arthur might have been laid to rest. Again, grabbed the name only because I liked it. Review please!