It's too dark to see anything. They don't call it the Darkling Woods for nothing, after all, and besides that, no place can remain light when she's left her mark there. Well, she's had months to sap the soul of the place and turn it pitch black.

His magic guides him. Though his eyes can't pierce the darkness, he navigates the thick trees with ease. Arthur would be proud; he hasn't made a single misstep. The familiar flood of despair engulfs him as it always does when he thinks about Arthur and how he'd looked when Merlin found him, eyes open and staring at nothing, white and unmoving and empty-

Merlin takes a shuddering breath and tries to get a hold on the pure agony that shakes his whole body. There's this persistent punched-in-the-gut feeling he's had since that awful day, and it gets worse if he lets himself remember why it's there. The Dragon hadn't lied when he said they were halves of a whole, and Merlin still feels like he's been ripped apart.

And it's been months.

Her hut, or hovel, or whatever she calls it - not the one where she once chained him up and robbed him of his will, that one's long gone - creeps up on him unexpectedly, even though it's what he's looking for. He stops, almost startled, when he sees the outline of a large, dark shape and realizes he's there.

It's not like she's in hiding. She knows he's been too broken to look for her. He could have tracked her down from the very beginning, but he's been too busy piecing his own life together to care about ending hers.

He still doesn't want to face her, but it's time. Arthur deserves vengeance. Merlin straightens, strides to the door, and stops.

It opens.

She must have candles everywhere, because they illuminate her from behind. There's a glow around her badly kempt hair, creating an angelic impression that didn't suit her in the least. Her eyes seem shadowed in contrast.

Morgana Pendragon - the only Pendragon left - stands rigid and stares at him. "I saw you coming," she says. "In a dream." She doesn't say nightmare.

Merlin has all the power of the world quivering at his fingertips and dancing on his tongue, yet the moment he sees her face and hears her voice after months of loathing and cursing both, he does nothing. He feels suddenly powerless in a way he hasn't since he first saw that his destiny was stretched out in his bed like he was sleeping, but the knife was still in his chest and the blood was dried to his skin, the sheets, patterned on the carpet-

He feels sick and hollow. Nothing unusual there.

She steps to the side, wordlessly inviting him to come inside. Her eyes are glued to him, watching him warily, like she knows why he's here. But of course she does - it's been coming for a long time. There can only be one reason.

He doesn't stay long. Neither of them say much, and they alternate between staring at each other and refusing to acknowledge that the other is present. He tries, two or three different times. He imagines her suffocating, and she starts to. He throws her across the room to collide with the wall. She reciprocates out of anger, though he knows that she knows that he only did it because he thinks he has to. He doesn't feel anger anymore, not even at her. He just doesn't have the energy.

He grows weary of the exchange and leaves, limping slightly and bleeding from a cut on his cheek. He doesn't look back, not even when she calls, "My dreams say you'll be coming back."

Of course he will be.

.x.X.x.

The first kiss is a surprise.

He returns the next night, unable to keep himself occupied enough during the day to have a real excuse not to go. There's nothing left in his life to distract him. He always complained how much of his life Arthur took up, but he'd never stopped to consider how very empty his world would be without that large part of it.

He remembers going to the king's chambers (former, he reminds himself) the day after it happened, finding Gwen crying and sitting on the bed where it all happened, where the sheets had been changed because the stains would never, ever wash out-.

He put his arms around her, silently trying to offer a comfort he himself didn't possess. She'd buried her head in his shoulder and shaken the whole bed with her heaving sobs. Merlin didn't cry. His soul cracked and the foundations of his existence shook, but his heart was too battered to be worn on his sleeve anymore.

"I can't stay," the queen had said between gasps, pulling away to look at him with water-logged eyes. "It h-hurts- I can't be queen if he's not king."

Merlin had no words to convince her to change her mind. Within a week, she'd left.

It occurred to him then that he'd failed in every last aspect of his life. He hadn't brought magic back. He hadn't given Arthur time to become the greatest king alive; he didn't even have it in him to comfort one friend when he failed to save the other.

And Morgana. He hadn't saved her, either. He'd driven her away, and no matter how much of this was her fault, he would never be able to look past the parts of it that were his.

He swallows the lump in his throat as he settles himself in front of her door, content to wait until she opens it for him. She has to know he's here.

If she does, she doesn't show it. He stands unmoving even when sprinkles of rain begin pelting his hair, even when the sprinkling becomes a downpour and he starts to shiver involuntarily.

It takes at least an hour for her to notice his presence, or at least to acknowledge it. The door swings open and she eyes him, soaked to the soul, and tells him he'd better get inside or the weather will kill him before she can.

It's the nicest thing she's said to him in three years.

He's not quite sure how it happens. One moment he's thawing himself in front of the fire. The next, they're at each other's throats, shouts of hurt and betrayal and the unfairness of it all ringing through the tiny hut. Accusations fly, blame is placed.

And somehow - that's about the time things get foggy - somehow, they're kissing.

Merlin tenses when he suddenly registers Morgana's mouth fierce on his, fighting and condemning and devouring him just as she'd done before, only in a new, more frightening away. He goes straight to fight-or-flight mode, and fight wins out.

He parts his mouth, and while she tries to overcome him, he initiates a counterattack. He knows immediately that he's doomed to lose. He doesn't know how much experience Morgana has in these things, but it's clear that there's power behind her attack. His back is flat against the wall, otherwise he's sure she would have forced him back by now.

There are warning bells in the part of his brain that still functions, but his magic is singing in his veins. He can feel hers connecting with his, and it's like a lightning storm of danger and power and excitement. At least, it's as exciting as a broken man is capable of feeling. It almost burns, but it isn't unpleasant; it's definitely not unpleasant.

They part when Merlin remembers that he has to breathe. She doesn't seem winded when they break away and catch each other's eye. Neither one blinks, afraid that that small movement would shatter the small world they've stepped into and draw them back into the one where they're trying to kill each other.

Morgana blinks first. Merlin's surprised; he knows she was stronger before her heart turned to stone, but he also knows that none of that's had an effect on her stubbornness. Nevertheless, she turns away from him likes she's ashamed or in pain - he's not sure which. "I think you should go," she says.

So he does.

.x.X.x

They fall into a routine.

After the first few times Merlin slips out at night to visit her, he begins to feel the stirrings of guilt. He's turning to Morgana so often on the basis that there's no one else left, when in reality Gaius is still there for him at every turn. He's there waiting for Merlin to wake up in the morning so he can try to fit a few pieces of him back together. Merlin knows he should be more grateful, should give the physician more credit, but he feels irreparably distanced from him.

In fact, he thinks perhaps the main problem he has with Gaius is that the old man still believes he can be mended. Merlin knows it's not that simple. His soul isn't damaged; half of it's just plain missing. You can't heal what's already dead.

The games he plays with Morgana don't came any closer to healing him than Gaius' false words of consolation. If anything, he thinks they might be tarnishing the half of his soul that's still mostly intact. But if it doesn't make him feel better - or even make him feel much at all - it at least gives him something to do other than wallow.

They still try to kill each other, of course. For Merlin it's a sense of duty and habit. For Morgana... He can't tell if she truly hates him, or if she's like him, striking out when it seems like the right thing to do.

Between attacks, though, when they get tired of deflecting thrown knives and extinguishing spontaneous flames, they fill the gaping silence with the kind of behavior that better befits a man courting a lady. It's never more than kissing, but when their lips meet, Merlin can't imagine what more they could possibly wish for.

Once, when he leaves her, she catches his arm. He turns to face her, wondering if perhaps she's finally going to end this with a smile and a knife.

She doesn't. She looks him in the eye for one brief moment that might not even have existed, leans close to his ear, and whispers, "He called for you when he died. I wonder if he really thought you'd come."

Merlin's shoulders stiffen. He gapes at her for a few seconds, reeling with renewed hurt, and hurries away, leaving the door wide open behind him.

He doesn't return for weeks.

.x.X.x

He gets lonely, of course, with nothing to do in his abundance of free time except fend off Gaius and the knights. Elyan's the only one who treats him normally. Percival and Leon act like he's going to break at any moment. Gwaine hauls him off to the tavern once every couple of weeks, sometimes to push a tankard of mead into his hand, sometimes to sit with him in uncharacteristic silence while everyone else drinks and laughs and roars around them.

He'd honestly rather curl up in his bed and pretend there was never an Arthur, never a group of knights he called his friends and brothers, never a stupid destiny that he had to go and fail miserably just when he thought it might work out after all.

Kilgharrah's only spoken to him once since the Once and Future King fell gracelessly into the past, and that was to express how poor a future the Old Religion has now.

It's no wonder Merlin's driven back to her. After all that she's done - even after what she said to him - she's the only one in the world he actually wants to see. He doesn't know if it's because he still feels some stupid spark of friendship he still feels for her, or if he's really hoping she'll end it for him one of these times.

He's also not sure which of those thoughts is worse.

She freezes when she sees him standing there in her hut. He didn't knock this time. He didn't want to give himself the chance to run away.

To his surprise, she moves into his personal space and takes his hand, her eyes glistening.

"I'm so sorry for what I said," she says. There's no feeling behind her words, but there is sincerity, and that's all Merlin needs from her.

"Was it true?" he dares to ask. "Did he..." A lump forms in his throat, and he can't say it.

She nods jerkily.

He's gone through months of that hollow, emotionless pit in his stomach, and suddenly with Morgana a dam breaks. She puts a hand to his face while tears spill unexpectedly from his eyes and he sinks to the floor. She follows to maintain contact. He's glad for it, because without her to ground him, he may very well have fallen apart.

They're the first tears he's been able to shed since Arthur's death.

There's a silent agreement between them not to fight each other this time. Morgana sits with him while he buries his head and shakes with the force of his sobs. Once in a while she tries to kiss away his tears, but they just keep coming.

This time when he leaves, drying his eyes on his sleeves, he begins to wonder if this means Morgana is changing. Have his visits fixed her? he wonders. Has he healed whatever went wrong inside of her?

He dismisses it immediately. She's no more able to heal than he is.

.x.X.x

She's finally found a way to kill him.

It's perfect. He won't suspect it, and he won't be able to save himself from it. It almost seems unfair, but she refuses to let herself pass this up. She's in the habit of trying to kill Merlin; she's not going to stop just because she doesn't want to anymore.

Morgana Pendragon doesn't let go that easily.

She scrounges up a meal for them, made mostly of magic. She knows it'll put him on his guard. She wants him to be.

Sure enough, the door opens close to midnight, and Merlin's shadowed eyes light on the table, decorated with candles and platters of food fit for a royal banquet. He edges cautiously to the chair opposite hers and lowers himself slowly into the seat.

"You made this," he says, taking in the chicken, the berries, the glasses of wine, caught between a frown and the ghost of a smile. "For..."

"For us," Morgana finishes, voice light.

He finally looks away from the food and at her, and she sees how deeply the suspicion has rooted itself. He knows there's something not right here. He glances back at the food.

She helps herself to a berry or two. He follows. They eat.

He doesn't die.

An hour later, he still isn't dead, and he looks so thoroughly confused in that matter that Morgana wants to laugh. Not a cruel, evil laugh - a genuine, bell-like laugh at how endearing he looks when he hasn't the faintest clue what's going on.

He seems to relax when another hour rolls around and he still hasn't even felt a twinge. Morgana enjoys watching him lose the hunted expression. She enjoys it so much she pulls him into their first kiss of the night.

It rained earlier, for the first time since Merlin first came to her hut, but in a burst of inspiration Morgana decides to lead Merlin outside and lie down beside him on the wet leaves, both staring skyward when they're not busy staring at each other.

And, when they get bored with doing either, they kiss some more, hungrily at first until it dissolves into something softer.

.x.X.x.

"I could taste it, you know."

Morgana rolls over and regards him with an insincere expression of innocence. "I don't know what you mean."

Merlin smiles slightly. "The poison, Morgana. The one on your lips."

She returns his smile. He notices how sad it is. "If you noticed, then why didn't you stop?"

"I didn't want to."

They both lie on their backs, silent for a long time. It's hard to see the stars through the trees, but it's comforting enough just to know they're there somewhere, twinkling and perhaps watching the young man who failed to do what's written in them, and whose insides are starting to burn a little as he faces the consequences for a choice he only kind of made.

Merlin puts his arms behind his head. For the first time since Arthur died, he doesn't feel that ache. It's no longer a matter of wanting to die, but rather one of embracing the fact that it's going to happen. He thinks maybe with magic he could save himself. The problem is, the night's too calm and he's too peaceful to try.

"You swallowed some, too."

It's half a question, half not. She turns her head so she can look at him. "I know. I can feel it."

Merlin turns, too. "Did you mean to?"

She shrugs. Her face looks extraordinarily pale. "I thought it might happen. I suppose I didn't try not to."

.x.X.x

Emrys is dying beside her. She's dying, too, on the damp forest floor that will turn out to be the last home she ever knows. It could be argued that it's also the best.

She's never felt so close to anyone.

Merlin's breathing slows. She's hyper-aware of everything concerning him right now - how his hand is touching but not holding hers, how his eyes are lidded but not closed. How his heartbeat is weak but not gone.

She thinks they could have been something.

"I ruined us," she whispers. "All of us. You, me. Gwen. Camelot. King Arthur. Have you ever noticed how right that sounds? It could have been sung and written and dreamed about. King Arthur."

Merlin's voice is a croak; he's dying faster than she is. "Arthur sounds better," he argues hoarsely. "Just plain Arthur. Think about it. Maybe there'd be songs and poems about King Arthur, but all the memories and the smiles and the good times... those are just Arthur."

Morgana hums in response. She's so tired. She doesn't want to keep fighting. She only wants to remember what to fight for.

Merlin's hand goes from touching to holding, and she remembers.

His eyes glimmer from talking about Arthur. Her own start to well up as she closes them briefly and sees the gritted teeth of a teenage boy as they start off the day sneaking off to spar before Uther notices.

She hears Gwen telling her about how awful the prince was being to this poor servant, and how some brave - or stupid - boy stood up to him. She hears Gwen chattering excitedly to her that the boy at the feast who saved Arthur is the same boy who stood up to him the other day, and how she hopes the two of them don't kill each other before the week is out.

She sees that same servant riding side by side with his king, insulting each other like sworn enemies and laughing together like brothers.

She hears his last breath and thinks that final image must be in the future.

She stops breathing, too, and finds out.

Once again, this isn't even almost what I had in mind. The first half is a lot darker than I thought it would be and the last half is a lot lighter than I planned. Let me know your thoughts, good or bad!