Fic: The Lost Ones (Merlin BBC)

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Title:  The Lost Ones
Characters/Pairings: Morgana, Merlin, Gwen, Arthur (slight Gwen/Arthur, but can be ignored)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Smear of angst, canon character death, spoilers up to S4 'The Darkest Hour'
Genre: Character study, family/friendship
Word-count:  1,249
Disclaimer: I own nothing in relation to this show. If I did, Gwaine would wear leather pants. Like, a lot
Summary:  They are all orphans, in a way. A character study of our four main characters, and the people surrounding them

They are all orphans, in a way.

 
Morgana, of course. Hardly even knew her parents: only had the memory of a sweet mother stroking her hair, and a brave father, leaving them for the battlefield. And then Uther - growing up with him, seeing his true nature, his violence and hatred. Being betrayed by him. Forgetting that he used to be so kind.

She has been an orphan all her life, because everyone save one man believed her to be so. Lady Morgana, the King’s ward. Always standing tall and proud, hardly letting anyone save Gwen see her sweet side, her soft side. She cannot afford to let anyone in, because she has already lost so much, before she was even old enough to realize that she had it. She will never admit to it, but almost every day, she dreams of how different her life would be, had her parents still been alive. A nagging voice in the back of her head tells her from the very start that it would have been somehow better.

It isn’t a wonder that she clings to Morgause like this: she is a figure of strength and stability and she understands the magic, something no-one else does. Growing up with Arthur and Gwen, there has never really been anyone for her to hide behind when things got rough, anyone she could count on. Certainly not Uther.

Yes, even accepting that Uther is her true father – and feeling some perverse pleasure in this, because it is another way to harm him, and a failsafe way to get the throne – Morgana still sees herself as an orphan. Plunging the knife into the chest of an already-dying Morgause just settles the fact.


 
Merlin sometimes wonders if he would have gone insane many times over, if it hadn’t been for Gaius.

There is the steady stream of letters from his mother, of course. Those soothe his soul and tell him that she is alright without him. That she is getting by and believes in him: he is obviously not an orphan, because he has her.

He doesn’t have a father though. Had one for a few hours, and then destiny ripped him away again, cruelly snatched from a lonely child who wondered why all the other children in the village called him ‘bastard’ when they thought he couldn’t hear.  He still remembers one day he’d gotten so angry at one of the older kids for mocking him, when a brick had suddenly flown through the air and hit her. She had escaped with a mere scrape, but that had been the first time he had hurt someone with his powers, really hurt them. It wasn’t until many years later, with Balinor dying in his arms, that he’d wanted to hurt someone that badly again. So there is no father there to teach him about his power, about the values of life. About his responsibility.

But maybe he doesn’t need that. Maybe all he needs is Gaius.

The kind guardian who tells him to clean up in his room, to eat his breakfast even when he doesn’t want to, to go to bed at a reasonable hour. When the weight of the entire world is on your shoulders, you forget the little things. You forget that, around the big, grand moments of death and pain and horror and brilliantly fighting their enemies, there are duties and normal-life. Gaius keeps him grounded, and Merlin finds himself wondering more frequently if he would have gone insane many times over, had it not been for the man’s presence.

He’s almost certain he would have.


 
Guinevere is an orphan. She became one by Uther’s hand, by unjust laws and trickery. She became one because her mother had died of illness when Gwen was old enough to hold her hand, but too young to understand why she wouldn’t wake up. She became one because her father took a risk, because they lived under a King that pardoned no-on when he was not obeyed.

It would be so easy to hate Uther for this, because now she is alone, doesn’t have her sweet, kind father who never gave up believing in her, and certainly doesn’t have her brother who can’t seem to find his way back home. Yes, it would be easy to want him dead, but if there is one thing she has learned from her mother, it is to be kind, and if there is one thing she has learned from her father, it is to hold on to your principles. She doesn’t believe that a better world can be achieved, if this is attempted through cold-blooded murder. No, she will stand alone for now and take comfort in whatever life gives her.

She doesn’t regret her decision. Not when Uther turns ill, losing the will to live after Morgana’s betrayal and most certainly not when she stands beside Arthur, when she sees him smiling and beaming at his people. Finally his people.

She has always been strong on her own, standing as the steadfast shadow behind their golden lights – and they shine so brightly, her boys – and she thinks that, if she can handle being an orphan, it is because she is never truly alone.


 
Arthur has always been told how much like his mother he is. How his blue eyes sparkle just like hers, how his hair is soft and golden, like a halo, how his nose, his chin, his jaw, his soft speech, his smile, it’s all just like her.

When he was younger he used to feel uncomfortable being told this: what he knew of Igraine, he knew from the older servants, the knights who had served for years, the kind ladies in the fruit stall who would give him apples and a soft pad on the head. His father never speaks of her, and Arthur thinks that it must be hard to have someone around that reminds you of whoever you’ve lost.

There was nothing but pride in him however, when people told him he was like his father: when he won a tournament or trained day and night to become the best warrior, the best leader that Camelot had ever seen. It isn’t until many years later, after finally seeing a ghost-like memory of his mother, conjured up by Morgause’s magic, after hearing lies and deceit and watching a child being executed for the very last time, it isn’t until then that he noticed the lack of warmth when people compare him to Uther Pendragon. The lack of any emotion, save perhaps scorn.

He holds Guinevere’s hand tightly later, so much later, a heavy crown resting on his head – now truly an orphan, because his father has passed away too, leaving a torn kingdom and an insane daughter as his legacy to Arthur, and when he pardons two children for stealing, their grandmother cries in joy and tells him that he is as wise and kind as his mother.

It feels like the greatest compliment anyone has ever given him.


 
It’s funny, how none of them has ever been able to hold onto a whole family before. How someone, or everyone, has always slipped beyond their grasps, falling into the darkness of death or simply leaving them behind. How much they are actually missing, even if they don’t always realize it. How sad they must seem to outsiders.

They are all orphans, in a way. Not that that has ever stopped them.