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Mordred sees her, after so long apart, and his magic understands.

It instinctively reaches for her across the snowy wastelands of the Northern Plains, where she stands high above by a stone tower window of Ismere's fortress. The impeccable, unmovable portrait of a fearless sovereignty, overlooking all those down below her with stoic, bloodless features and the upright hold of her shoulders.

He had waited. For a whisper of his Lady's name, to know where she might be. Sleeping in the muddy banks of rivers, in molding and wet cots, he waited.

To seek a path where they would once again exchange words. Whether they were lovely or they were grim and clouded in bitterness.

He waited, hungry, but not for the bread he had placed in Merlin's hands. Mordred had waited, for so long now.

And the waiting finally is over.

His magic wishes to tangle so deeply with Morgana that there would be no conceivable possibility of separating, or perhaps to absorb the nexus of her own magic, in that extraordinary brilliance she carries in herself. Becoming one, as they should be, as he longed for.

And he suppresses it away, keeps his composure and tries to remain inconspicuous hidden in layers of wool and animal fur.

But Mordred burns for her, so fiercely; so much that he would do away with precaution and scale up the walls of that lonely tower where she waits. Would claw the bone-cold, dirtied stone with bare hands, to scrap away dead, frozen skin from his fingertips and his nails. Just to smell her, just to glimpse up close to her glossy, color-eyes.

He had burned for her in his tender youth, but it had been weaker, more innocent. As his magic had been untrained but brimming with raw power and hers barely a pulse, fainter than a sparrow's heartbeat. Her arms had been his haven; Morgana had been his castle, protecting and guarding him, made of flesh and blood-hot. The swell of her chest, where her thin ribcage and heaving chest had flattened tight against him, and she had embraced him, tender as his age.

She embraces him now, their eyes having met across the fortress grounds as that filth of a man Ragnor had dared to address her so boldly, to smile so ugly to her enticing, deadly beauty as her reputation amounted her. Mordred's gut builds a slow, churning heat at the feeling of her body pressing closely to his.

So much smaller than he is. He could pick Morgana off her feet like this, carry her away in his arms, and let them vanish away into the earth. Melt away into the billowing snow.

Mordred lets his arms slide clumsy to her waist, grasping there.

Half buries his wind-reddened face into her musky, bear-fur jacket. Content with what he can receive from her.

He's still capable of waiting.

.

.

They speak so easily to each other at dinner. As if they had only been away from each other for several days at best. He cannot hide the admiring smile when her clear, green eyes stare up. Her own, naked mouth curls into a wan smile, for him, as she cuts away little slivers of red apple skin in her hands.

Morgana cannot smile so pleasantly anymore. She claims there's little to be joyful about during these dark times. With Arthur alive, Morgana cannot be Queen.

Cannot rule Camelot, or bring back the Old Religion.

Cannot be happy.

He wants to change that. Wants her happiness. But without Arthur dying by her hand. Arthur Pendragon is an honorable man and Mordred owed his life. It wasn't simple to forget.

When her voice rises, breathe quickening as Morgana details how she would kill Arthur herself, eyes widening with a deranged and impossibly terrifying beauty, Mordred lowers his voice. He tries to calm her. The murderous craving for another man's blood, for revenge, it lights her entire face. And heats his chilled veins, leaves a wash of arousal to steal him.

As he wishes to steal her away.

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She comes to him, before the last of the grayed, icy sunrays disappear. Kneels in the guest chambers Morgana has prepared for him.

Holds his face between her soft, pale hands and murmurs an apology for her behavior. Tells him he is special, that he deserves to be more than the others given him. She tells him they weren't animals; they didn't deserve to be driven from the rest of humanity and forced to hide their magic.

Mordred closes his eyes, soaking in the little compassion she has left to her; only for him. (She's like the rotted fruit in the sewers below the fortress, infected from her hatred, curdled and blackened inside.) If he could, oh, he would turn his lips to run them across her palm and her fingers, suckle them, and draw helpless noises.

Rip open her bodice and suckle from her breasts. Taste where dried sweat clings to flesh. Open her up and taste where hot slickness gathers, delve his tongue where she splits.

He wants to crawl inside Morgana and grow again. Root deep within her marrow, melding to the dark warmth of her belly, and become a different entity from himself. Become one with her, as he should be. Restore the decay she allowed herself to concede. Share her pains and her emotions, and trace the original source of her being.

Chart each inside angle that molded her. Touch the fragments. Live and bleed and born from her.

As he was meant to, and Mordred was meant to be with her.

Her fingers leave him, and she does, too. But, patience is an old companion.

Even when the waiting tastes bitter and ashy, it's the sweet juices he dreamed on his mouth, nuzzling where Morgana would cradle him, like a mother, between her thighs.

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BBC Merlin is not mine. And I needed this to be seven times more creepy than it was, but Mordred is such an adorable bastard, arghh. I hate you, bby. I hate you.

Kinkme-Merlin prompt:

"Mordred/Morgana, one-sided. Creepiness, stalking, and a mother complex."