The craggy, black-slate mountain of a structure had many lower level tunnels.
While they were well-guarded, it was only to a point. Her guards, though brute and rippling with muscles and fierce temper, had no immunity for tactically-used enchantments. Her men had as much value as a squalling babe if it came down to it.
Nevertheless, bought swords and sworn, dull-eyed loyalty kept what was hers strengthened.
And with Arthur's knights and his encampment not even two leagues from marching upon her castle…
That left Morgana with the true defense of what she claimed.
Deep within the mildew covered walls, flames licking torches, she stole through the left passage, eyes adjusting to the dark. The quality of the air beneath the stones was bitter and stagnant. Footsteps silent, she came upon her prey. Morgana spotted the begrimed material of his storm-blue tunic disappearing through another passageway.
She crept behind him, thrilled at the stroke of fortune, smirking in triumph.
Morgana flashed out a dagger from her billowing sleeve, lying it across the jut of Merlin's chin. Its blade gleaming.
"Look what I've found scurrying under my castle," Morgana said, soft and detached. "A rat."
Merlin's shoulders tensed their inward hold, as he breathed out her name, moving his neck at the dagger's command. His eyes did not meet hers, did not offer any feature of emotion—let alone fear. She seized his tattered, gem-red scarf, with enough violent force to nearly choke him. She slitted it apart, kicking it aside as the scarf hovered to her feet.
Merlin groaned aloud, dirt-smudged lips pressing together when the blade applied pressure to a vein on his neck.
"You would do well to remember whom speaks to you."
"I haven't forgotten you, Morgana," he whispered.
Morgana bared her teeth at him, radiant and manically gleeful. "Of course not. You mean to kill me, don't you?"
When a pause of stillness reverberated between them, she lowered her voice, ghosting her exhales to his cheek.
He said nothing again, mouth slack and parting. Merlin's eyes pointedly stared ahead, bluer and clearer than her dear brother's—and she would see them both plucked free from their sockets, bloody and glistening and still warm cradled in her hands.
She hated this boy. Emrys. Merlin.
He liked to stick his face where it didn't belong and willfully defy her. Didn't bow to authority as any smart boy would. Even now, Merlin ignored the dangers of angering her on the eve of battle, clasping his arms behind his back and played the fool. But he wasn't.
"You only have yourself to blame for this, Morgana."
Merlin's irises sparked a yellow-gold colour.
His magic threw Morgana straight off her feet, like a rush of icy wind to her face. The dagger clattered to the ground.
Her body landed with a sickening, loud crack against the tunnel wall, pain jolting through every limb and thudding her skull. It felt as if it were a broken fruit-melon. She crumpled to her knees, to the hem of her woolen, dark concealing cloak.
Merlin rose to his feet.
And sooner was no longer, as Morgana thrust out her hand, channeling her own powerful magic. He cried out, helpless to it as Merlin was slammed once, twice against the ceiling of the passage and then dropped as a heap to the floor. Merlin laid groaning against his spinning consciousness, to his heavy, injured body where Morgana pinned him down.
All of him she held fast, without raising a single finger.
"The only blame I take for myself," Morgana told him, sweeping up her skirts and climbing over him. Her tone solemn. "Would be I had not rid of you sooner."
Underneath her skirts, wet and warmth, her nakedness starting to dampen the front of his breeches. Merlin's cock thickened to the feeling of Morgana's hips rolling unforgiving into his, pressing down on him, attempting to rise and fit that welcome, hollow space.
Her expression remained full of ire.
"Do you enjoy a place at his side, Merlin… even when your worth is meaningless?"
He managed to croak out, visibly straining against the hold to the floor, "He'll understand one day. Arthur's—uuh—he's a good man."
Morgana's palm slapped him hard, leave the noise to echo and a crick in Merlin's neck.
"And I am not," she said, grimly.
The same hand came down on Merlin's throat, fingers clamped, wringing the oxygen from him. He could only buck so far, and Morgana instinctively allowed his lower body that freedom, shivering into the delicious weight of Merlin arching up. They had felt a sweetness together once, muffled laughter and kisses to shush each other while hidden in the archways.
But then she had been Uther's dutiful, ignorant ward, and he—the love to her hatred; her destiny and her doom—
Merlin had been nothing but a lowly serving boy to her.
Now, he was so much more than that. Much more than she could ever imagine.
His magic reached out, prying Morgana's hand away so he could breathe in, but not retreating further. It danced like tingling heat across her pale, obscured skin under her cloak and her dress, up her forearms, up her legs, against her chest and belly.
She crooned, undulating against him when Merlin's hands went free next, where he gripped her tightly to him.
The heat and magic sought to fuck into Morgana, rooting her out, invisible fingers spreading her open. Far from the tendencies of a clumsy lover. Each touch to the inside of Morgana's thigh or her centre like a pinpoint of gossamer sensation, too light, too kind.
Merlin's laces must have been already done because she felt him inside her, sheathing himself. Merlin moved roughly and equally unforgiving as her hips, stretching, filling her with a terrible, divine burn. Morgana gasped out, cursing his name. She fisted his gravel-dusted tunic, yanking it nearer to herself as they heaved and trembled into each other.
She panted and growled, imagining it as animalistic, dizzy in the scent of Merlin and their sweat and filthy bodies.
Her temple that had struck the wall ached, bleeding slow. A shock of colour to her skin and the contrast of black hair. Her bruised lip swelling. Morgana witnessed with some faint, though distracted, interest—the grotesque, misshapen cut on the bridge of Merlin's nose, and the pink clouding of his right eye darkening and its lid closing up.
They levitated as pleasure crested, their angles changing. Her magic thawing him— firelight, leaving very real burn marks. But only to the surface.
Merlin's hands clawed her sides, and he hitched a moaning breath. Shaking like a leaf.
The first warm spurt trickled deep in her womb, mingling to her own release. Their magic swirling and weaving intricate knots. She felt him. Morgana bore down the lingering filaments of her bliss, finally slipping him out between her legs. She rubbed soothing circles into her flat belly, grinning at his wide-eyed, humiliated look.
"You'll regret that, Emrys."
In her dreams, the last victory would be at Camlann. Her army, bought swords and loyal, beady-eyed men, grew weaker.
Morgana flexed her bare toes into sweet-smelling, lovely grass, relishing the balmy summer air.
"You may go," she said, evenly. One of her new Saxon warriors bowed his way out the silk tent, having finished delivering his message.
More would come. More men.
But she would be patient, yes. Patience and her were old friends.
"One day you will destroy your father and his beloved King for me, little one."
Mordred looked upon his mother's relaxed, smiling face and cracked a gummy, toothless smile, cooing in her arms.
BBC Merlin is not mine. BUMBUMBUMMMM! STORY OVER. But not my new fic headcanon (if first!Mordred existed and was Arthur's champion—it would be Mordred vs. Mordred. BUMMM!) . This was a bit of a canon divergence/post-magic reveal from the show!canon and implying some facets of Arthurian legend. Instead of the tool being Arthur and Camelot's destruction being his own son, it's Merlin's son when he's grown and ohhhh that'd suck. I always wanted to try a hatesex!Mergana. Series 4 gave me a lot of urges for that. Anywhoo! Comments/questions are so, so appreciated. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Untold_Legends prompt listed as summary!