A/N: I realize how few people in the world who read fanfiction watch both American 60's sitcom Gilligan's Island and modern British drama Merlin. I don't care. I'll fight anyone who says I can't ship Gilligan/Morgana. (And OMG can you imagine the Arthur/Mary Ann?)

The first thing Morgana became aware of was heat. Warm, comfortable heat from the sun flickering over her skin, prying in between her eyelids.

To say she was surprised was a bit of an understatement.

She'd lost the fight. She knew she had; she'd shot something deadly at Merlin, too overwhelmed with anger and too unsteady to even know what it was. But Merlin had countered with his own magic, bright colors mixing together and spinning back towards her. She'd jerked, feet leaving the ground, and everything had gone black before she'd landed.

In that kind of circumstance, there were two possible outcomes, and neither involved her lying with her eyes closed, napping in the sun. The less likely scenario was that she'd lost and been subdued, at which point Merlin had taken her off to Camelot and she was curled up in a cold, musty dungeon. The more likely outcome was that she'd died when the magic hit her.

This was not a dungeon in Camelot, she realized, letting her fingers drift around her—there was grass and dirt under them. She could hear animals. No, say what you would about children of Camelot, but any child of Uther Pendragon should know his dungeons when they awoke in them. She knew she would without opening her eyes.

She didn't think she was dead, either. She could be wrong, of course; but she was fairly certain that any sort of afterlife (a concept she hadn't devoted much time thinking about, in all honesty) would not allow her to keep a mildly throbbing head and warm, pleasant heat. She always imagined the afterlife to be chilly. Unless this was hell, but if all hell contained was a slight ache, soft grass, and bright sun—well, she should have been fairly more villainous in life!

No, she was not dead. That decided, she opened her eyes.

She was not anywhere she recognized. Sitting up, Morgana squinted and looked around. She looked normal; her hair was messy, her dress was her normal ripped black affair, and touching her long finger to her eyelid, she discovered that she hadn't lost her green eye shadow—the one decoration she allowed herself anymore. But the land around her was alien.

The sky was blue, bluer than she remembered it being. There were trees and grass. Dirt, but sandy dirt—not anything that could be found in her forest. A sand path was not far from her. And some of these trees were downright strange. What kind was that? she wondered, studying one with large, feather-like leaves and layered trunk.

How did she get here?

Morgana heard a noise and spun around as fast as she could, hand out and a spell already on her lips.

She encountered a sight so funny her hands nearly dropped to her side. A young man faced her. His shirt was red—as red as Camelot's cloaks. He had a hat like she'd never seen, white and floppy. He wore strange pants and shoes, and had a pinched expression like he was lost on his face. And he was skinny. Skinnier than Merlin, even—much skinnier.

He came crashing through the trees and met her eyes, jumping like she'd shocked him. He gulped visibly and grabbed his hat in both hands, staring at her like she was some fantastic beast.

She blinked.

"Wow!" he cried immediately, his voice in a loud whisper. "A lady! A real lady!" But then he stopped like he'd just thought of something. "Are you real?" he asked.

She let one hand come to her hip in a way that Helios and Agravaine had found exceedingly attractive. "Yes," she said, letting her signature smile slip onto her face—the one which suggested mental instability. Then she grew serious. "Are you?"

"Me?" the little man in red nearly squeaked, looking alarmed at her smoky glare. "I'm Gilligan!"

Her head jutted forward. "That is your name?"

"Yes," he said. "Wow, you are real! Wait 'til I tell the others! You could rescue us, lady! Where's your boat?"

"Boat?" she repeated. "What boat? I have no boat."

"How'd you get here, then?" he asked, his excited face falling. She tried not to feel guilty, like when she'd been fifteen and slapped Gwen, watched the maid's face fall—and then Morgana had promptly burst into apologetic tears.

"I haven't the faintest," she told him. "Where am I?"

Now he looked at her like she was crazy. "You're on a deserted island," he told her. "Off the coast of Hawaii. There are seven of us—we were shipwrecked here."

"The coast of where?" She'd never heard of such a place. She moved forward in a way vaguely threatening. He noticed, his eyes flickering to her hips where her pale hands sat. He took a step back.

"Hawaii," he said. "You know, the state. America! The United States!"

She remained blank.

He tried to placate her. "You sound like you're from England," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I am."

"Well," he said, smiling nervously. He made her think of a mouse. "Maybe you just… missed hearing about us! We had this Revolution, see."

She blinked, and then rubbed her hand against her forehead. "You speak in gibberish," she said. Perhaps he was a simpleton? "How did I come to be here?"

"I don't know," Gilligan said. "I just found you. Gee! The Professor might know something. He always does. He's real smart."

She waved her hand. "May I meet him? Is he your leader?"

Gilligan grinned, instantly friendly again, all inexplicable fear forgotten. "Nah," he said. "That would probably be the Skipper, or Mr. Howell. We all sort of work together here."

"You said there were seven of you," she said, a little uncomfortable all at once. "All men?" Not that they would give her too much trouble if they were—she had magic. But perhaps they did as well? She would have to keep her eyes open.

"No, four men, three girls. Mrs. Howell, Ginger, and Mary Ann. They're all real swell. You need to meet them!" Gilligan came forward, and took her hand.

Yes, he reached out, into her space, and took her hand in his. And he'd only just met her! Morgana stiffened like a board, but before she could shriek or smite him (whichever came quicker), she was being dragged through the forest by an exuberant boy.

"Professor!" he yelled as he went, obviously knowing just where he was going. "Skip-per! Prof-ess-or!" He dragged their names (or where they names?) out as he called.

At last he came to a stop, and she quickly yanked her hand back, putting it to use straightening her neckline. It wasn't really made for much shifting around. By the time Gilligan turned around, though, she was back to normal and looking as queenly as she could manage, though the heat was making her sweat.

It was so sunny and bright here—it was cold in Camelot, she'd thought.

"Wait here!" Gilligan said, and then he ran off into a clearing right in front of them, leaving her alone. She lifted her eyebrows as she heard him yelling. "Professor! Skipper! Mr. Howell! There's a lady! She's in the trees…" She heard a mumbled response. "No, Professor, she's an honest-to-goodness lady; she's pretty and everything…"

Morgana felt herself blush. She blew air out of her cheeks, surprised. It had been a long time since anyone called her pretty like that. (Helios didn't count, because he'd call a rock pretty if it meant he got something he wanted.)

After a bit, Gilligan came running back over, his footsteps joined by two other pairs.

"Come on," he called to Morgana, and she stepped out of her not-hiding place, trying as hard as she could to look intimidating. Just in case they got any ideas. She was the one in charge.

She took in the sight around her. There was an open space with several huts built all around; it reminded her of a smaller Ealdor, but made of green leaves, and with a communal table set in the middle of the whole thing. Two men were behind Gilligan; one was fat and aging, with a blue shirt on and a black funny hat. The other was an attractive younger man in a white button down shirt. Both looked perfectly shocked to see her standing there.

"Well, little buddy!" the fat man boomed. "You were right!"

"I told you," Gilligan replied smugly. "But she didn't come on a boat, and she doesn't know how she got here. This is the Professor and the Skipper!"

"Is that so?" the man in the button-down shirt (Professor) asked, reaching out to take Morgana's hand. "You just woke up here?"

Morgana considered her options and decided to tell the truth. "Yes," she said. And then, because he was still waiting, she took his hand and shook it. These people were strange, and she could see their customs were wildly different. She would just play along.

"That is most unusual. What's the last thing you remember?"

Morgana blinked. "Oh," she said. "I was thrown backwards." Leave out Emrys, she decided. Leave out everything. She didn't trust these people.

"Well, what's your name?" the Skipper asked eagerly, his mouth hanging open like a dummy, in her cultured opinion.

"I am the Lady Morgana," Morgana replied.

"Well," Gilligan said with a grin, "I knew you were a lady… We haven't been shipwrecked that long."

"No, Gilligan," the Professor replied as though he were used to politely correcting such comments. "She means she's nobility. It's very nice to meet you, milady." The Professor gave a slight bow.

Morgana did not curtsy in return. Somewhere along the way, between the frizzled, untouched hair and the lack of underskirt, she'd dropped that formality. She only still introduced herself as Lady when she wanted to make an impact… And when the people she spoke to didn't know any better.

"Well, we'll have to figure out what happened," the Professor said as soothingly as he could. "Gilligan, where did you find her?"

"Over by the lagoon, Professor, right off the path," Gilligan answered, pointing towards the way they'd come as he straightened his hat.

"Do you wish me to come as well?"

"I don't think you need to," the Professor said. "Not if you don't remember anything."

"You're probably tired anyway," the fat man replied, patting her on the shoulder. She bristled—she didn't like being touched. He looked down at her outfit, in a manner so far from subtle that she felt the urge to roll her eyes. "Perhaps Gilligan could take you to meet the girls," he added. "They could probably lend you some clothes. That dress looks like it's been through a lot."

Morgana ran a self-conscious hand down her dress. "That would be acceptable," she said at last. "As long as I am informed of anything you discover."

"Of course, milady," said the Professor. "Come on," he said to the Skipper, and then he ducked off down a path away from the clearing. She watched him go, trying to memorize the way the paths looked from this side.

The Skipper lumbered after him, after pulling up his pants with an "erp" sound.

Gilligan looked at Morgana, smiling. "Are you ready to meet the girls?" he asked.

She contemplated that. She'd hate to do what they expected her to do—no need to give them the power. "What if you showed me around a bit first?" she said. "I've never been anywhere like this. For example…" She walked a little to the side and placed her hand on the trunk of the strange tree she had noticed earlier. "What is this?"

"A palm tree," Gilligan said, cocking his head to the side. "Haven't you ever seen a palm tree?"

"No," she said, studying it intently. "We don't have them where I am come from. I mean, I've heard of similar ones… But not like this. A palm tree," she repeated, and then smiled. This place was almost like a new world.

It was strange. But perhaps it could be nice.

A/N: I'm thinking three or four shot, short chapter story. What do you think?