The stairs turn to stars underfoot as Merlin runs down to the dungeons, and it'd be pretty if the sudden impression of empty, unstable space didn't make him feel almost sick with dizziness. He closes his eyes and trusts his feet to find the reality of stone; he falls on the last step and when he pulls himself up again, the room's walls are rippling like sheets in the wind. He focuses on Morgana, silent and blissfully normal, behind the bars.
"How are you?" he asks.
"Unsurprised." Morgana gives a soft laugh. "It seems that in Camelot, as ever, being immune is the same thing as being responsible."
"We know you didn't --"
"I know. Thank you." Morgana sets her hands against the bars; Merlin sees them as molten metal, but he forces himself to do likewise. It's normal. It's normal. It's fine. "I should be asking how you are."
"Fine. Well." He smiles, rueful. "Not really fine."
She surprises him with a laugh. "If only there were some way to capture a sound and release it again. I would dearly love to show you exactly how high your voice can go when you scream, Merlin."
Merlin feels himself going a bit red; he doesn't tell her that he's been trying out a spell to do just that, capture sound in strings. So far all he's managed to make is a bootlace that, when plucked, produces a quiet rendition of Arthur saying I don't know why you're messing about with your boots, Merlin, when mine are still covered in mud -- hardly a worthwhile application of his magic. Merlin doesn't need a simulcrum of Arthur's voice to scold him when Arthur himself is more than happy to do it.
"How's Gwen?" Morgana says then.
"Worse. I think she keeps seeing her father."
Morgana's mouth winces, briefly, and then anger lights up her lovely eyes. "I'll kill them. Whoever they are. Whoever did this."
"You'll be standing in line," Merlin says grimly, trying not to think about Uther's disintegrating grasp on his authority. About Arthur, cold and frantic, spinning his sword at ghosts, seeing danger everywhere but never able to strike it down. "Anyway. I'm here because I can stop it, I think, but I need -- you -- look, Gaius thinks --" Gaius thinks there are plants growing out of his hands "-- he thinks you're immune because of your gift. Because you're a Seer."
Morgana's silence is sharp enough to cut. Merlin closes his eyes again, because of the roaring fire consuming her dress, and speaks quickly.
"I won't tell anyone. I swear. And I don't care, I don't care at all, because I'm a sorcerer and I can fix this if I can just see properly. But I need your help for that."
Merlin strokes his hand over the writhing sparks that are, he's fairly sure, where the lock is supposed to be. The door goes back to being a door just long enough for Morgana to step out, her eyes narrowed but free of fear.
"I see," she says. "Merlin. We're going to have a long conversation -- later," she finishes, just as Merlin is about to interrupt. "What do you need me to do?"
"Think about -- a fork in a river. One stream sending water in two directions. Your eyes and mine." Merlin holds out his hand. "Sorry, that sounds a bit odd, but it's the best I can do."
Morgana reaches out and takes his hand, and Merlin feels silly but he concentrates with all his mind on opening up some kind of connection, some thin stream, to join their visions. Like all the abstract spells he's tried, it gives him a headache within three seconds.
Morgana gives a soft gasp and looks at the floor, which is crumbling into blue sand.
"Goodness, Merlin, is that --"
"Focus!" Merlin says desperately. "Morgana, please! Use your eyes, not mine."
"Yes. All right."
Her hand tightens around his own and Merlin forces himself to watch as the surreal devastation of the world wobbles away, slowly, until it's just the two of them in a dark damp room: tense, and alone, but seeing true.
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"How are you?" he asks.
"Unsurprised." Morgana gives a soft laugh. "It seems that in Camelot, as ever, being immune is the same thing as being responsible."
"We know you didn't --"
"I know. Thank you." Morgana sets her hands against the bars; Merlin sees them as molten metal, but he forces himself to do likewise. It's normal. It's normal. It's fine. "I should be asking how you are."
"Fine. Well." He smiles, rueful. "Not really fine."
She surprises him with a laugh. "If only there were some way to capture a sound and release it again. I would dearly love to show you exactly how high your voice can go when you scream, Merlin."
Merlin feels himself going a bit red; he doesn't tell her that he's been trying out a spell to do just that, capture sound in strings. So far all he's managed to make is a bootlace that, when plucked, produces a quiet rendition of Arthur saying I don't know why you're messing about with your boots, Merlin, when mine are still covered in mud -- hardly a worthwhile application of his magic. Merlin doesn't need a simulcrum of Arthur's voice to scold him when Arthur himself is more than happy to do it.
"How's Gwen?" Morgana says then.
"Worse. I think she keeps seeing her father."
Morgana's mouth winces, briefly, and then anger lights up her lovely eyes. "I'll kill them. Whoever they are. Whoever did this."
"You'll be standing in line," Merlin says grimly, trying not to think about Uther's disintegrating grasp on his authority. About Arthur, cold and frantic, spinning his sword at ghosts, seeing danger everywhere but never able to strike it down. "Anyway. I'm here because I can stop it, I think, but I need -- you -- look, Gaius thinks --" Gaius thinks there are plants growing out of his hands "-- he thinks you're immune because of your gift. Because you're a Seer."
Morgana's silence is sharp enough to cut. Merlin closes his eyes again, because of the roaring fire consuming her dress, and speaks quickly.
"I won't tell anyone. I swear. And I don't care, I don't care at all, because I'm a sorcerer and I can fix this if I can just see properly. But I need your help for that."
Merlin strokes his hand over the writhing sparks that are, he's fairly sure, where the lock is supposed to be. The door goes back to being a door just long enough for Morgana to step out, her eyes narrowed but free of fear.
"I see," she says. "Merlin. We're going to have a long conversation -- later," she finishes, just as Merlin is about to interrupt. "What do you need me to do?"
"Think about -- a fork in a river. One stream sending water in two directions. Your eyes and mine." Merlin holds out his hand. "Sorry, that sounds a bit odd, but it's the best I can do."
Morgana reaches out and takes his hand, and Merlin feels silly but he concentrates with all his mind on opening up some kind of connection, some thin stream, to join their visions. Like all the abstract spells he's tried, it gives him a headache within three seconds.
Morgana gives a soft gasp and looks at the floor, which is crumbling into blue sand.
"Goodness, Merlin, is that --"
"Focus!" Merlin says desperately. "Morgana, please! Use your eyes, not mine."
"Yes. All right."
Her hand tightens around his own and Merlin forces himself to watch as the surreal devastation of the world wobbles away, slowly, until it's just the two of them in a dark damp room: tense, and alone, but seeing true.