A/N: This is the second and final part of this story. I've decided to rewrite the rest of Challengers, lol, but hopefully I'll have the next chapter up soon. Story 3 should be up by the end of the week!

If you knew what I know,
Would you try before your time has run anew and worn you down?
Would you know what you deserve in your heart?
And if you knew what I know, would you try? . . .
Is there time to follow just one desire?
Is there time?
Is there time to follow your heart's?
- "The Shade of Poison Trees," Dashboard Confessional

Guinevere is the paragon of servitude – able hands, keen eyes, alert ears, ready to do her mistress's bidding.

But the problem is that servants often hear more than they're meant to.

And Gwen, as handmaiden to the Lady Morgana, sees more than her fair share of secretive glances, hears more than her fair share of plans for arranged rendezvous. Until a few weeks ago, it'd been more from Morgana's friends and peers – the ladies of the court trying to keep their amours and affairs clandestine.

But then Gwen had begun to notice the frequent blushes, the way Morgana withdrew into herself whenever a certain person was around.

Her head spins when she tries to fathom it, when she tries to tease out how Merlin – Merlin! – has gotten under Morgana's skin so thoroughly that she can barely raise her eyes when he's near.

While changing the drapes in Morgana's chambers, she notices her mistress sitting quietly in the corner of the room, a wine goblet in one hand, a book lying idly in her lap.

"Morgana," Gwen sighs. "Is everything all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You've just seemed . . . lackadaisical these past few weeks, that's all." When Morgana doesn't respond, she gently prompts, "Is it Merlin?"

Morgana looks up, surprise in her gaze. "Merlin?"

"I've seen the way you look at him," Gwen explains quietly, "or try not to look at him." Setting the folded drape on the table, she says, "I know it's none of my business, but he's my friend. I don't want to see him hurt. I don't want to see either of you hurt."

Frowning, Morgana shakes her head. "No one can get hurt if there is nothing to hurt them," she murmurs.

Gwen scrutinizes her friend, seeing for the first time the sorrow she tries so valiantly to hide. "Morgana . . ."

But Morgana rises abruptly and crosses to the window. "Have you ever dreamt that your life could be different?" she asks faintly. "Longed for a world where you didn't have to play by anyone else's rules, where you could just live as you pleased?"

Gwen's lips twist thoughtfully as she joins her mistress by the window. "This is about Merlin? Because he's a servant."

Morgana, arms crossed and jaw set, turns to her and says, "The world will not always be like it is. I take comfort in that, at least."

There was a time, Merlin remembers, when he didn't have to worry about destiny. He didn't have to worry about saving the prince, or keeping the kingdom running normally, or even keeping his magic a secret from the king. All he worried about was getting the crops planted, whether the harvest would be plentiful enough to last the winter.

Now, though, he sometimes feels as if his burdens outweigh the benefits he sets in motion.

He stands in the middle of the make-shift hospital room, chest heaving as he surveys the carnage. It's too much. He's tired of the plotting, and the betrayal, and the death he constantly encounters in the employ of the prince. So far, he's managed to protect Arthur, to protect himself, but how long can he keep it up? What if he makes a mistake one day and they cannot escape trouble so easily?

Merlin's eyes fall upon the body of Sir Balthazar, his arm hanging limply off the table, the mail over his chest smeared in blood. Sir Balin lies on the adjacent table, still breathing, but terribly injured.

They hadn't been so lucky tonight.

He and Arthur and the knights of Camelot had returned to the castle – bloody, exhausted, hesitantly triumphant – but they had returned bearing eight of their own dead, and many more wounded.

Gaius and others are tending to them now, leaving Merlin, his heart torn with grief, to stand helplessly in the doorway.

Morgana, looking almost as exhausted as he feels, glances up from the patient she's tending to and moves toward him. The front of her dress is covered in blood, but she seems calm.

"Are you all right?" she asks, her voice soft and lyrical.

"Yeah," he assures her, not tearing his eyes away from the bodies stretched out in front of them, "not a scratch."

He never has a scratch. It's always casualties around him, always his friends who suffer for him.

She purses her lips. "No, are you all right?"

Merlin finally looks up and meets her eyes. Seeing the concern etched into her face, he realizes how worried he must be making her, Gwen, Gaius. "Sorry," he says, licking his lips. "I'm fine, just . . . tired, I guess."

Pressing her hand into his, she urges, "Then you should rest. And change out of those clothes."

He glances down to see that his blue tunic is stained dark brown with dried blood. Shakily, he runs a hand through his hair.

"Hey," she says as she leads him over to a chair, "I'll go find you a spare shirt, okay? You just stay here and rest for a while."

He shakes his head, refuses to sit down. "No. You have so many to look after. I'm not going to waste your time just because I need a clean shirt and some sleep."

Morgana glares at him imperiously, and if he had more energy, he'd be quaking in his worn-out boots. "Fine. Then I'm escorting you back to your chambers, where you're going to sleep. And don't you even dare argue with me."

Nodding, Merlin allows her to take him by the elbow and guide him out of the room, away from the reminders of this horrible day. His chambers are comfortably familiar, and she pushes him gently down onto the bed before rifling through his drawers and pulling out an unsoiled shirt.

"Here," she says, holding it out to him. "Off."

He's learned to tell her moods from her speech patterns. The short, terse sentences mean she's trying to conceal her anger, her worry. She looks away when he pulls the dirty tunic over his head, but the movement taxes his weary muscles, and he can't hide the grimace that crosses his face.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" she queries with a delicate frown.

"Sore," he breathes as he dons the new shirt, "but I'll survive."

He sighs, trying not to think about those who haven't survived this night. She pulls back the sheet and ushers him into bed.

"Well," she murmurs, "that's the important thing."

A lock of her hair falls against his cheek as she leans over him, and he can't kid himself any longer. He's seen lives torn apart, seen how people go through life without ever going after what they want.

Morgana has been a touchstone, even just over the past few weeks – the reason he can face danger without flinching. And he can live that way the rest of his life. He can lock up his heart, admire her from afar, draw quiet strength from an affection he can never speak of.

But what use is love if you can't shout it to the world? What good is opening up your heart and letting love in if you don't give another person that very same chance? Love is meant to be shared, not hidden.

And Merlin, for all his fear, doesn't want to lose what he's never had.

Morgana plumps his pillow and tenderly brushes back his bangs from his clammy forehead. "You must rest," she orders softly. "I'll be back in an hour to check on you. If you're not sleeping, I will force an entire vial of Gaius's sleeping draught down your throat. Understand?"

It's meant to be a threat, but her voice holds no force, and her thumb gliding over his cheek distracts him from what she's saying.

Morgana leans down to kiss him, her lips ghosting over the furrow on his forehead, and she's standing up before he realizes.

But he instinctively grasps at her hand, her fingers warm in his cold ones.

"Morgana," he whispers, and she turns slightly. "The things I saw tonight . . . There's so much bad in the world. I realized that I can't pass up the good when I find it, because it may be the last chance I have. And even though it may be fleeting, or the evil may seem overwhelming in comparison, it's still worth it."

Morgana, taking a deep breath, squeezes his hand and says, "Rest now."

And she releases his hand before sweeping out of the room, leaving Merlin with even more thoughts spinning in his head than just a moment ago.

She promises to come back, but she doesn't. She sends Gwen instead – kind, sweet Gwen who doesn't force sleeping potion down his throat, but instead gently chastises him for not falling asleep yet and offers to lull him to sleep with a story. He declines, not in the mood, but she stays by his side anyways.

"Sir Balin is out of danger," she informs him, and he smiles at how easily Gwen can read him. "As is Sir Gawain."

"That's good to hear."

"Will you try to get some rest now? We can't have you getting ill from exhaustion, now can we?"

Gwen pats his arm, and Merlin drifts off into an uneasy sleep, his thoughts consumed by a dark-haired enigma.

It's a week before he sees her long enough to hold a proper conversation. She doesn't come to check up on him, and when he manages to bump into her in a corridor, she always runs off to take care of something, barely sparing him even the basic of pleasantries.

He has no idea what's changed since that night in the woods, but he knows he can no longer ignore this.

Because great joy comes from great risk, and he'll be more miserable never knowing.

He remembers the way she'd behaved that night they'd gone swimming, can vividly recall the look in her eye as she'd talked about love and duty. And he notices the way her cheeks turn crimson when he passes her in a corridor, or the soft, breathy laugh that escapes her throat when their hands accidentally meet.

Even if she's taken to ignoring him over the past week, even if she's found another servant to tease, even if she's forgotten completely about him, all of that cannot mean nothing. And for a wild moment Merlin allows himself to hope.

So that night, when the castle's fallen asleep, he creeps up to her chambers and knocks on the heavy wooden door. There's silence for a moment, in which his palms sweat and his heart races and he second guesses himself. But then she opens the door and there's no going back.

"Merlin," she greets, the hint of surprise in her voice offset by her smile.

He inclines his head. "Lady Morgana."

"Please, come in."

It's only when he's inside her room and she's shut the door behind them that he observes that she's wearing only a pale purple nightgown, the thin film of it barely concealing anything. Her hair is rumpled, her feet bare, but he doesn't think he's seen her more beautiful.

Swallowing, Merlin plunges in before he can change his mind and rush out without a coherent word. "A couple months ago," he begins, gesticulating nervously, "in the forest, when you asked me . . . well, why me?"

Morgana, leaning against the closed door, replies quietly, "Because you're different."

"So, it wasn't about . . . rebelling or anything? It was about me?"

She tilts her head, and he gets the impression that she's entirely too calm for the conversation he's trying to have. "You ask an awful lot of questions," she murmurs. "Did you come here this late just to talk?"

Her words are soft, unremarkable, but her eyes hold a challenge. She's used to being in control, to snapping her fingers and having her orders followed. But maybe she doesn't need that from him. Maybe all she's looking for is something to cling to as the world falls to pieces around them.

"No," he answers quietly.

Determination welling up in his chest, he strides forward and presses his lips to hers. He grips her waist, and for a fleeting moment he worries he's being too rough. But Morgana, taken aback at first, brings her hands to his chest, grabs a fistful of his shirt to pull him closer. He pushes himself against her, pushes them against the door, feels lightheaded at the sensation of her hips rocking against his.

The kiss is nothing like their first. This one is frantic, searching, daring; and a moan escapes the back of his throat as she catches his lower lip between her teeth.

Morgana pulls away and rests the back of her head against the door, catching her breath.

"No," he breathes, his chest heaving, "I didn't come here just to talk."

The vice on his lungs loosens when Morgana lets out a lilting laugh. Perhaps he'll live to see another day after all. She puts a hand on his neck, drags him close.

"Why did it take you so long?" she whispers.

"I thought you were teasing me," he confesses with a sheepish grin. More soberly, he says, "But I realized that, as Arthur's servant, I'm going to be in danger more often than I expected. And if the end happens to come tomorrow, I don't want to regret never getting to know you."

Her smile fades, her gaze drops to where she's fiddling with the laces of his shirt. "This is because of last week, isn't it? Because not everyone returned."

He nods, rests his forehead on her shoulder. She wraps her arms around him, her fingers running up and down along his spine.

When it becomes clear she's not going to say anything, he says, his words muffled against her shoulder, "You've been ignoring me. Why?"

"Because you were scared. I didn't want this to be because you were afraid of dying. I want it to be about me." She lets out a sad, breathy chuckle. "Selfish, I know."

He lifts his head and reaches a hand up to cup her cheek. "It's not selfish. And this is not about being afraid to die. Morgana, I don't want to be afraid to live."

Meeting his warm blue eyes with her pale green ones, she swallows and asks, "You understand that we'll have to keep this a secret? That it will be dangerous?"

Merlin nods again, determined. "Of course. But I also understand that you'll protect me as best you can. I trust you, Morgana."

Her eyes sparkle as she brushes his bangs from his forehead. "And you are the only one I trust with my heart," she tells him quietly.

Taking her hand and lacing their fingers together, he pulls her over to the windowsill. "What about Uther? What about your suitors?"

Morgana leans into him and reaches an arm up around his neck. "We'll worry about that when the time comes," she murmurs, a small smile on her face. "For now, it's just you and me."

Merlin grins.

He can start to see how they can make this work now, how they can carve out a place for themselves in the middle of an unforgiving world, how they can just be Merlin and Morgana.

"Yeah," he breathes, "just you and me."

Morning sunlight streams in through the windows along with the twittering of the larks.

Morgana groans softly and snuggles deeper against Merlin's chest. He slides a sleepy arm around her waist as she presses a light kiss to his collarbone.

He feels like his chest is going to burst with happiness. He's almost afraid to open his eyes to the sunshine, a vain bid to stop the day – the work – from coming and separating them.

"Mmm," he murmurs, stirring.

She picks her head up to look at him. A smile springs to her lips. She could get used to lazy mornings like this.

They both could.

Inhaling deeply, she tangles her fingers in his hair and leans down to kiss him.

"Good morning, my lord," Morgana whispers, smiling against his mouth.

Merlin opens his eyes and lets out a languid chuckle. His eyes sparkling mischievously, he flips her onto her back with surprising swiftness considering the contentment he feels just lying beneath her. He cuts off her delighted laugh as he captures her lips in a soft kiss.

"Morning, my lady," he grins. "You know, I think you've gotten yourself in trouble here."

"How so?"

He laces their fingers together lazily and says playfully, "I expect to be woken up like that every morning."

"Oh, really?" she laughs. "I think that can be arranged. On one condition."

"What's that?"

"Love me. Until the sky falls down and the four horsemen come and this earth is no more. Beyond that, even."

Despite the levity in her voice, Merlin senses the underlying fear. For all her outward grace, Morgana is a lost soul. He's never seen a woman more worthy of being loved, or more uncertain of deserving that love.

A woman like that needs care and compassion.

But sometimes she needs laughter as well.

Leisurely, he traces a circle around her belly button and teases, "A truly Herculean task, I see."

As he expects, Morgana laughs, the sound washing over him like a waterfall. She rolls over him again, and he buries his face in her neck, taking pleasure in the way her hair falls against and tickles his cheeks.

For a while, they can pretend that the entire world consists of this room, this bed, and that the only thing that matters is the breath that flows between them. Not the kingdom, or Arthur's life, or the ban on magic, or the social order.

Just them.

No one can be as happy as they, and that's something they don't have to pretend.