Title: Carry it with me
Character/s: Morgana, Uther
Summary: Uther was dead, but Morgana wasn’t finished with him just yet.
Warnings: Horror, major canon character death, desecration of a body.
Word Count: 635
Camelot_drabble Prompt: 352 – "i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)"
Author's Notes: The quote had to be included. However, I didn’t want to do anything remotely romantic with it.
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Uther was dead. Dead, destroyed by magic and at her hand.
Morgana smiled as she inched even closer to Uther’s unmoving body. In the Great Hall, he was displayed ever so regally, cloak spread wide, bejeweled and powdered and wearing his finest tunic for all to see, to give the impression of awe and power.
But there was no awe there, no power. He was a merely a thing, rotting away before her eyes. She could smell the beginnings of decay and see the cold grey of his cheeks. He could no longer hurt her. He was dead and she was glad.
She was not there to honor him, to show a true daughter’s remorse, to give him the love he certainly did not deserve. No, never love, but there was one last thing he could do for her, one last offering among all the pain and despair and madness he had gifted her over the years.
For that, she waited until her brother ended his vigil. She waited until that irritating fool of a servant took Arthur away. And in the moments before the guards would come again and take the meat for burial in the deep dark under the castle, she acted.
Taking out her dagger, one imbued with its own magic, she stalked ever closer. Then shifting his fine jewels and silken tunic, all the trappings of royalty pushed aside, she began to dig into his flesh, past putrid skin and slack muscle and bone, cutting away the layers of his life, down, down until at last she’d reached her goal.
His heart, still red, still soft, looking almost as if in a moment, it would start beating again.
It would have been glorious had he still been alive as he lay there helpless before her, screaming in agony as she dug in, but she would take what she could.
Thrusting down, she cut deep and sure, all the while whispering in the ancient tongue, "i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart).”
Glowing with power, profane and beautiful, blackened corruption swirled around her and the blade, flowing in and out as Uther’s heart came free.
Wiping her dagger clean, she sheathed it, took out a carved box she’d carried from a holy-man’s desecrated grave, its surface glistening with dark magic, and laid it there on Uther’s chest.
Reaching in, gripping Uther’s dead heart with both hands, wanting so much to squeeze and squeeze until nothing remained but shredded meat, instead she carefully put it into the receptacle and closed it with a snap.
Her hands were slick with congealing blood. She drew her hands across the silken tunic, leaving smears of brown and gut behind. But it wouldn’t do for anyone to know what she’d done, at least not until her plan was complete.
Breathing out, she whispered a few words of power, and Uther’s body was clean again and covered, the tunic and jewels as lovely as ever, the dead king looking as regal in death as he had in life.
But Morgana had her prize. Uther’s heart would be the key to Arthur’s own. Their hearts linked, father and son, in family and sworn blood ties.
Her magic was strong, her will even stronger, and she knew just what to do.
One heart would call to the other, magic flowing black and corrupt from Uther’s into Arthur’s own. Each day, he’d be a little more like Uther, a little more the despot king, and whatever love the people of Camelot had for Arthur would die.
In the end, Morgana would rescue them from the tyrant and bring magic back to the world. And when she was crowned and Arthur knelt before her, shackled and alone, Morgana would give him a final gift.
Uther’s heart in a box.