Morgana's first memories were soft. They smelled of freshly dried hay. She remembers petting an animal–a horse. Remembers combing her fingers along the withers, scratching below the hocks, rubbing oil into hooves. She remembers how the tail would swat her in the face and she'd giggle with delight. "___!" she'd call his name. Whose name?
She remembers being held in strong arms. A rough hand would massage her scalp. Another, with delicate fingers, would comb her hair and braid it. They loved to braid her hair, each one more extravagant than the last.
These are Morgana's precious memories that can never be told. She will always treasure them.
Each day, she braids her hair. It's never as tight as the slender fingers. Each day she visits the stable and cares for the horses, their hooves never shine as bright as those she loved before. Each day, she longs for a father, a mother, someone whose arms might hold her tight and carry all her burdens, her own arns wrapped around herself at night give little comfort.
Camelot is cold and lonely.
Then one day, today, a young man challenges Arthur and is thrown in the stocks.
His fingers are slender, his arms are toned. He laughs when Gwen chides him. His name is... "Merlin?"
Merlin looks at her, and his smile is everything. This is the boy who gave her the strongest hugs, who combed her hair and braided flowers into it. This is the boy, no, the man, who found her abandoned and introduced her to magic. This is the man who has finally finally come back for her.
"Oh, hello, Morgana." He smiles as tomato drips down his chin. "I promised I would find you again. Here I am!"
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