Morgana has tea with Merlin

The invitation came along with her breakfast. It was written in a neat, elegant hand, politely and succinctly inviting her to have tea with Lord Merlin at four sharp. Morgana stared at it for a long time before she crumpled it in her fist. When she opened her hand, there were only ashes smearing her palm.

It had been a couple months since the coronation, since she asked to be hosted in Camelot on account of getting to know the half-brother she never knew she had. Her wish was granted, and she would be welcome for as long as she wanted – and it would be a long time indeed, now that she knew that the plan she seeded had taken roots.

Morgana reached beneath her dressing gown, laid a gentle hand on her stomach. There was no tell-tale swelling and there wouldn’t be for weeks to come, but her ceasing menses had been her first sing of hope. The trial she’d taken next confirmed her suspicion, cinching her plan.

And while seeing Merlin would never be a pleasure, not unless it was to drag him to either his jail or his grave, Morgana found herself in a bright enough disposition to weather his presence. Better not give him the satisfaction of calling her ill-mannered for turning down such a genial invitation.

Ten minutes to four, Morgana set out towards the Sorcerer’s Tower. Her gown of brocade and silk – dyed Tintalian blue, the mildest defiance she could indulge in – rustled as she climbed up the spiraling stone stairs. She’d had new dresses tailored in the Camelotian fashion of starched bodices, laced cuffs and hoop-skirts. They were most unlike her Avalonian clothes, those light and airy tunics that let her easily and freely roam about the thistle-faced cliffs, along the sandy beaches, down hot cobblestone streets. With her heart feeling as light and easy as her dress on those sun-drenched days when the hollow in her chest didn’t seem so horribly deep.

But these Camelotian gowns were heavy and layered and more ornate than a cake, their glamorous, intricate appeal hard to deny; she donned them as a costume to aid her play her role, donned them as an armor that protected her from the callous world.

She was received by Lord Merlin, a mild smile on his lips. Oh, how she wanted to claw it off.

“Lady Morgana.” He sounded pleased to see her. “Just on time. I’ve put the water to boil. Please, come in.”

The table had already been set too. Twin porcelain cups with matching saucers stood on opposite sides of the table, atop a doily of pristine white. Upon a closer look she saw the lace had been worked into a repeating pattern of eyes; it was subtle but once remarked, it couldn’t be unnoticed. Dozens of staring eyes, fixing her unblinking.

Merlin sat down across from her and made small talk, silly pleasantries that felt more like a game, like a play, two performers acting out their well-rehearsed lines. He inquired after her beloathed husband, who’d recently gone back to Lothia to attend to his Ducal duties; she asked after his daughter, Nimue, who was presently back in Avalon with her mother. The mention of the island made her chest twinge, that hollow yawning open, threatening to gnaw at her from the inside.

He repaid the question in kind, wishing to know how Gareth enjoyed Court. He liked it well enough. His toddler desires were neither vast nor complicated: with his favorite toys brought along and his mother at his side, we was more than content, Camelotian Court or not.

When the pot started hissing over the fire, Merlin went to tend to it.

Morgana wondered how much longer till she started bubbling and boiling and spilling over herself. Had he really asked her here just to make inane talk? This was a kind of torture all on its own – forcing her to sit, mild and polite, knowing that there was nothing she could do that would actually change anything, no way she could truly lash out beside using her sharp tongue lest she wished to rot in a prison somewhere or see the executioner’s block. She mused to herself, half entertaining the idea and half knowing it was ridiculous, nothing more than a fantasy to nurse at night, of what would happen were she to lay her hands on Merlin and crumple him to dust as she had with his invitation. Would Arthur take pity on her – on the sister he never knew, this girl which shared his eyes, their mother’s eyes – and exile her to Avalon? She’d be doing the King a favor, cutting down the bridle, severing the leash; but the poor, foolish, infuriating thing had let himself gladly collared, desperate for direction.

No, she reined herself in as Merlin brought over the steaming teapot, elegant porcelainware which formed a set with the cups. She needed to be patient, needed only to humour the sorcerer for the time being. She had a solution, a safety net, a chip to bargain with now. Her time will come. She pushed back the urge to touch her belly. Both their time will come.

Merlin went on speaking to her as if they were old friends, telling her of how he’d collected the leaves from his own private garden and dried them off the very beams of his chamber. It was a mixture of chamomile and lavender. An excellent blend, soothing and harmless, if it truly contained only that which he claimed it did. She didn’t necessarily fear being poisoned. Why would he go to the trouble of it when she was already collared and tied, caged behind golden bars. Though part of her wondered if the Royal Sorcerer would be able to get away with her murder, if only he put his mind to it. He could claim she’d threatened the King, put the Crown at risk, and he’d only done what his duty dictated.

Had it been Morgana serving him tea, she would have at least sneaked in something to upset his stomach.

She ran her index along the lip of the cup in a familiar motion, cooling down the liquid enough to drink. When she did, she discovered in the lingering, sweet and tangy aftertaste an ingredient he failed to mention.

“You failed to mention the gryphon’s claw.”

He seemed pleased but not surprised. “Indeed.”

She took another careful sip, swilled the tea thoughtfully around her mouth. It aided one in clearing their mind, as one might wish to do before meditating. Especially helpful, an insidious thought coiled itself around her mind, for practicing divination.

With any other sorcerer, in any other circumstance, Morgana would simply remark on the fact to herself, chalk it up to preference, and raise no further suspicions; it would be foolish to do the same with Merlin, to discount the tinniest details as merely innocuous.

Perhaps he infused all his blends with the herb, or anything with a similar effect. Or this was simply the best, or only, brew he had at hand right now. Maybe he thought he might manage to lull Morgana in a false sense of security, have her slip up and say too much. Calming tea or not, she’d keep her wits about herself, sharp and ready like the tucked claws of a cat.

He brought a plate of cookies, too, which he said were fresh from the royal kitchen. Morgana nibbled on them but could discern no other unexpected ingredient, just butter and sugar and the lingering taste of bile his presence summoned.

Then he produced a package from his pocket and carefully slid the cards out. Tarot cards, vividly illustrated.

Ah, so this was the game he wished to play with her.

Morgana had never understood why people wanted to be saddled by predictions, let them dictate their life, instead of taking the reins and carving their own way. They’re eager to let Merlin put blinders on them so that the only road they follow is the one he laid out for them. Scarfing down any scrap of information he gave up. It’d be pitiful, were it not so infuriating.

He placed the tarot deck in the middle of the table. It stood there like an invitation, like a challenge – almost like a threat. Merlin’s mild smile was still fastened on his lips, placid black eyes watching her expectantly. Yet Morgana would always recognize his intent, keen gaze for what it is; a sharpened dagger, no matter how ornamental the hilt, will still cut you.

“You wish to read my future?” she calmly asked, betraying no emotion beyond polite interest.

She’d be better off saying no. It wasn’t that she dreaded what his foresight might reveal to him were she to agree – he could try to peek into her future far more easily on his own, without any need of this spectacle, and she’d be none the wiser. There was little she could do against it.

So the intense, knee-jerk urge to say no was more a show of defiance than any real precaution taken. She wanted to refuse, wanted to take the pot of scalding tea and toss it in his face, push away his cards and pretty porcelain and demand the reparations she was owned. Her blood sang, fire-hot, and her palms itched with the hungry flames that begged to be released, to consume the flesh, melt that smile right off his face. Perhaps the calming plant had been added for his benefit, after all.

There was much she wished she could do – and that she’d be right to do, too – but none of her desires were practical. So instead she nodded. “Let’s see what the cards have to say.”

Merlin shuffled the cards with practiced hands while she nursed her cup of tea, the brew working to soothe her temper, if only slightly. Then he spread the deck out in a crescent of deep purple, dozens of painted golden eyes staring up at her, unblinking. There were hundreds of them affixed upon her, if you counted the pale ones wrought onto the doily.

For the next step, he asked to take her hand. “It’s to establish a connection, to–”

“I know,” Morgana smoothly cut him off. She may have not been fond of divination, but she’d acquainted herself well enough with the subject. After all, it was Merlin’s weapon of choice.

She placed her hand in his open palm, and his other came to rest over hers, trapping it. No matter how soft his hands, how light the grip, they’d forever be stained with the blood he spilled, never to be washed away, and she could not shake off the image of a beast’s mouth clamping down on her arm, ready to tear at the flesh at the first wrong move. The years at Lot’s side had taught her how to swallow down that squirming, writhing mess of fury, fear and disgust, and she kept her face blank.

She missed Junia’s careful, gentle fingers combing through her hair, missed the soft kisses Marcellus planted on her forehead, missed the bear hugs Gaius would pull her into, sweeping her off the ground.

He closed his eyes, and silence settled uneasily between them. His steady, deep breathing was the loudest sound in the room. Time moved as sluggishly as every rise and fall of his chest, the whole world around her revolving honey-dripping slow while her own heart took off at canter. She wondered if Merlin felt the heat of her palm, the wrathful magic simmering beneath. How it longed to leap out and meet him, to wrap itself around his skin in a fiery, smothering embrace, to grow and grow and grow till it cradled the how castle in its arms.

Then, eyes fluttering open, he slipped his hands from hers and turned onto the cards. His fingers hovered over the spread-out deck like those of an organ player, trying to settle on a searching for the right keys. When he finally reached out, he moved slowly yet deliberately. Morgana kept her gaze fastened on his face.

Had she been one of the poor fools that sought out his predictions, taken in by the spectacle, eyes riveted on the deft fingers and laid-out cards that’d spell their fate, she might have missed the moment his expression changed.

Though change is a generous word for the tiny motion that disturbed Merlin’s serenely blank face. As his hand moved to pick out a third card, it stilled suddenly, and he blinked, slowly. The faintest sign that something had taken him aback.

He placed the three drawn cards in a row between them. “Past, present, future,” he said, briefly resting an index on each, from left to right.

“I’m sure you’re more than well acquainted with my past and present.” Given he had a hand in shaping them.

“Ah, but they help in understanding the future, give us a perspective from which to view it.”

She wanted to roll her eyes but nodded instead. “Very well.”

“Let’s start then with that which has passed.”

He turned over the first card, revealing a picture of crumbling stone, white-foam mad waters and striking lightning.

Morgana bit back a mirthless laugh. There had been quite a few events in her past for which The Tower could apply, many of them a result of the Royal Sorcerer’s wretched, cruel meddling.

Merlin brushed the tips of his finger down the card, the gesture almost loving. “There’s been many a great changes in your life,” he went on to state the obvious. She felt as if he was mocking her. “Changes, and tribulations as well.”

“That we both knew well.” Her voice was calm and her lips frozen in a smile, but her fingers were wound up too tight round her cup.

Merlin said nothing, merely moved on to the next card.

“Ah, the moon.” He tapped the frowning face of the celestial body. “A card of mystery and illusions, of vulnerability and irrationality. You’ve not only shed your old garbs when you arrived to Lot, but your temperament too, at least as shallow appearances go.”

She did what she needed to survive.

Smiling mask still on, she said, “It’s what all Courtiers do, isn’t it?”

Merlin acknowledged her words with a small incline of his head and the sketch of a smile. “Too much of it, though, and it can easily become deception.”

You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?

Beneath the table, she dug her nails into her palm.

“And finally,” he said, fingers inching closer to the last down-turned card, “we come upon your future.”

Morgana raised her chin ever so slightly, ready to face whatever Lord Merlin was willing to throw her way. She was confronted with an equally undaunted painted face. The proud rider of the chariot held a lance in one hand and the reins of her steeds in the other, golden locks spilling free over glinting armor. There was a fire in her eyes that was familiar to Morgana.

“The Chariot,” Merlin said, his voice taking on a grave edge. “A card that indicates great determination. Your fire drives you onward, Lady Morgana. You persevere, and rush forward. Careful, however. Go too fast, too careless...”

“And I might destroy everything in my path?” she glibly supplied.

“And you might find yourself thrown off.”

“Is that all?” If he intended it to be a threat, it struck awfully weak, as mild as it was vague.

“Is it not enough?” Merlin returned, unfazed. “A word of advice to consider as you… pursue your life at Court.”

“Such cryptic word of advice. Are you being obscure on purpose, Lord Merlin?” A cloyingly sweet smile curled her lips as a delicious possibility crept on her. “Is your vision failing you?”

Were she to prod and poke enough, would the Royal Sorcerer try to dig deeper into her future right here, right now, prove to her there were no secrets she could harbor?

Instead, he chuckled good-naturedly. “I won’t deny it. Certain days are cloudy, others misty – but fear not, Lady Morgana, my sight will clear.”

A dizzying surge of satisfaction shot through her veins. Despite the latter warning, despite his confident talk, he’d admitted to a dead angle. How long that might last remained to be seen.

The cards laid out between them and their half-drunk tea cups, telling nothing she hadn’t already known herself. Merlin folded his hands atop the table with an air of finality, watching her expectantly.

She stared back. If he expected her to feel either threatened or impressed, he’d be sorely disappointed.

“So this is all?” Morgana dryly demanded. “Is this what everyone clamors at your door for?”

Not all his readings were tarot based, Morgana knew; the cards were there for spectacle, and not everyone demanded one. She hadn’t asked for one and still he dragged her all the way up to his tower just to flash his pretty pictures in her face, spin a web of warnings so thin and feeble as to be easily swept away. All this artificial politesse to remind her who was truly in charge at Court.

“Did you use to do this for Uther too? Showed him your pretty pictures and told him a little bedtime story of his future blood-stained glory?”

“If he asked of me, yes.”

“All you do, cards or not, is tell a story, build a narrative.” Her voice was calm, but the accusation was plain in her tone.

“Well, yes. I must be a story-teller; I must take all the sights, sounds, and smells that creep into my mind, as if there were memories, take all the emotions and knowledge that comes unbidden, and put it in a way that anyone can understand. Put in the way people want it presented to them. Surely you understand, that’s especially the case for those without magic.”

“But that’s what you want, isn’t it, Lord Merlin? You wish to craft the narratives that suit you most. And you are far from an objective narrator.”

Merlin smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Neither can you call yourself objective, Lady Morgana.”

“I may not be,” she said, thrusting her chin forward. It was hard to claim objectivity when she’d lost and suffered so much. “But your voice is louder than mine, is it not? Not all narrators are created equal.”

Merlin observed her for a while, head slightly tilted to the side as if the new perspective might afford a revelation, might display a weakness she hadn’t know to cover. She met his gaze headlong, held it unfaltering.

He finally asked, “Why have you decided to remain at Court?”

Morgana emulated his friendly cadence, “To get to know the brother I never knew I had. Thanks in part to you,” she added, without reproach.

“It was for the best.”

“For whom?”

“For the boy.”

Morgana wanted to scoff, but said nothing. How easily he could pretend to be so thoughtful, so magnanimous, so caring, deflecting the calculated, selfish truth. Even at a distance, even with his busy hands kept far from Arthur, he’d managed to mold the boy into what he wanted, what he needed: someone completely unprepared to fill the crown forced upon them, a puppet asking to be strung up and ordered by the oh so kind puppeteer who already knows all the motions of this royal theater.

Hands still folded atop the table, Merlin shifted, leaning closer. “I’ve heard you’ve achieved making yourself greatly lovable to Duke Lot,” he said, and her skin crawled. “But if you wish to ingratiate yourself to the King – to the Court – he’s not the only one who’s graces you must enter.”

Morgana smiled wide even as little tremors of anger racked her muscles, made her skin itch. “I’ve accepted your invitation, haven’t I? And I’ve indulged your little card game.” She stood up smoothly, inclined her head. “Thank you for the tea, Lord Merlin.”

One day, Morgana vowed to herself as she made her way down the stairs. One day, it’ll be her at the top of the tower, looking down upon Merlin with that artificial, mocking sweet smile, heel of her shoe raised to stomp him back into his place.