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Like any good, proper bookshop, there is a warmth when you enter. The kind of warmth that grows from your chest, and emanates from every corner of the place. Crowley suspected this may be, at least in part, due to a little divine intervention at the hands of the owner, but it’s not like he minded. It was certainly warmer than his own apartment after all, and snakes tend to do better under heat lamps than in the cold damp.

“Angel? You in here?” he called out as he stepped across the entryway, the usual warmth filling him up. The place smelled of old books, worn paper long eaten by moths, the soft, rotting flesh of a story too good to let go. He could see why Aziraphale liked books so much if that's how they smelled with age. 

Upstairs he heard faint shuffling, and the movement of paper, before the overtly English angel was seen at the top of the stairs, smiling. “Oh, Crowley! I wasn’t expecting you, is something the matter?” Aziraphale’s smile turned to quizzical worry as the words left his lips.

“No, no. Nothings wrong, just thought I’d pop by since I was in the neighborhood, wondered if you wanted coffee or tea or something.” Crowley responded. However this was a lie. He hadn’t been in the neighborhood, actually not even close, he had actually been in Brentwood, shopping around for a new apartment. Though after having significantly bad luck in his search he decided to call it a day. Apartment hunting was stressful, but the angel didn’t need to know he was homeless. He’d been homeless for millennia anyway.

Lately (ever since the not-so-apocalypse) Crowley had been finding himself turning up more and more at Aziraphale’s door. Now that they were both more or less out of a job, he found it much easier to be in his company than before, and not just because of a lack of conflicting job interests. Still though, he felt bad for imposing so often, and vowed that after this he would bother his angelic friend a little bit less.

“Oh! Well that sounds lovely, I was just finishing up a bit of organizational work and was thinking of having some tea. Coffee for you though, I presume?” The angel smiled again, bright and warm.

“You presume correctly. No sugar.” Crowley responded, glancing out the window so that he didn’t blind himself with that smile, “Please.”

“I remember, you and your bitter tastes. It’ll be just a few moments!” Aziraphale turns on his heel and heads to the back room, where a small stove and kitchenette hide, perfect for his much needed tea breaks. He could, of course, miracle the water to boil, but that wouldn’t be any fun, and some simple part of the angel liked the process of making tea the human way.

While the angel busied himself, the demon sat down languidly in the armchair by Aziraphale’s desk, draping one leg over the arm and taking off his glasses. He took a deep breath in, smelling that old book smell yet again. There was a worn copy of every Narnia book in a single paperback beside him on a stool that he picked up out of boredom, skimming it until Aziraphale came back with their respective drinks made. 

“I always found that one interesting,” the angel said as he sat down on the wooden stool, freshly cleared of its previous burden, “The man who wrote it was a Christian, and based the lion god in the book off of our own.”

“Sounds exciting.” Crowley set the book down and took his coffee, taking a quick gulp of the hot, bitter liquid. Holding the mug in his hands he looked over at Aziraphale, who was sipping his tea with his eyes closed. Crowley found he couldn’t look away.

He had to admit, he liked looking at the angel. Of course this admittance was to himself only, not even God could know. But how could he not, Aziraphale was just so bright. As he drank, Crowley watched his adam’s apple bob, just visible under his soft chin. A smile graced his lips again, eyes still closed. A look of pure bliss on the angel’s face. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, making the angel’s platinum blond hair practically glow. In moments like these Crowley realizes just how angelic Aziraphale is, and just how far apart they are.

Aziraphale opens his eyes and Crowley turns his away, embarrassed, but hopefully not showing it on his face. Unfortunately for him that sort of hope doesn’t really work on someone you’ve been speaking to for millenia. Fortunately, however, the angel had more than enough grace not to mention it. Instead all he said was, “You know, yellow really is a wonderful color.”

“Where’d that come from?” Crowley asked, gulping down the rest of his coffee to try and look busy.

“Well I’m drinking Chamomile right now, lovely flower with a pretty yellow center, and makes a delicious golden coloured tea,” Aziraphale replied, taking another sip, this time making eye contact as he did so, “Also it’s the color of your eyes.”

Crowley nearly spat out his coffee, but instead settled for sputtering and then partially dribbling some from out of the corner of his mouth. Recovering gracelessly, he covered his hand with his mouth and swallowed before replying, “I know that, but that can’t be a reason why you like the blasted color.”

Demons aren’t supposed to be able to blush, most of them having skin the colour of paper. Crowley is not most demons, and Aziraphale is smiling at him.

“Why not? Your eyes were some of the first yellow things on this planet, and they’re much more vibrant than most of the yellows I come across, they’re like stars.” the angel’s smile was practically turning the whole room into a supernova, Crowley couldn’t look away if he tried.

“You are a bastard for that,” Crowley said, smiling back, cheeks still flushed, “D’you think heaven would agree? They gave me these eyes when they cast me down, after all.”

Morgan breathed in deeply, feeling the strain of the magic she was controlling. No one else alive could even attempt a spell like she was working on, but it was still draining her reserves. She let out the breath with a sigh and extended her awareness. 

She could feel every tree in the grove. Every ant among the grass. Every beast and plant hidden among the wood. And she could sense every shiver and quiver of magic. Most importantly she could not sense her master. The only magic around was her own. 

Another deep breath in and she began to pull on another source of magic. One that was deeper...darker. The Faye magic that was her life blood could only drive this spell so far and she needed more power. 

She focused on her anger, on her fear, on her disgust, on her grief and poured that into her spell. The shadows around her longer and darker. She grimaced as the dark magic began to bite at her, pain eating at her insides. Her master would surely kill her if he saw her using these dark magics, but what did Merlin know?

If she could perfect this spell then her changelings could end all the senseless blood shed between human and troll kind. They could act as emissaries between the two species, walk in daylight like humans did and feel the warmth of the heartstone like the trolls did. Was peace not worth utilizing some magics that could harm and poison the user? Morgan considered the pain she put her body through to be a cost well worth the potential of seeing them all come together. 

Morgan drew on more and more of hurt and all of the feelings Merlin considered beneath him. Slowly she was lifted off the ground as the tides of magic flowed through her into the glyphs and sigils. She was careful not to draw too much of this dark power. She couldn’t let it poison and take over her mind. 

Finally with one last wave of power she settled back onto the grass. She looked around in satisfaction at the spell her dance had created. It was almost completed. Soon she would be able to bond a troll welp to a human infant to form a creature more powerful than either. 

With a soft smile of satisfaction she cut the flow of magic, tying off the spell. The sigils flared brightly for a moment longer then faded to nothing. Soon there was no trace of the magic she had melded into this space. 

Her smile faded into a grimace as a wave of pain slowly brought her to her knees. She curled up gently, holding her arms tight to her stomach. There was a bone deep ache that spread from her hands and shoulders. Her legs felt like they were filled with pins and needles and her insides burned like she had swallowed coals. Tears fell from her eyes as she leaned to the side and retched, her stomach heaving up nothing but bile and blood. 

As she cried softly from the pain that wracked her body, she couldn’t help a feeling of happiness. Any sacrifice she made to her body would be well worth peace. She could live with the pain and damage the dark magic did to her body if she could only stop the killing. 

Eventually the tears stilled and retching slowed. She wearily got to her feet. Even besides the deep ache from the dark magic she was exhausted. The Faye Magic inside her was almost completely tapped. It would be a few days before she could so even light a candle with a spell. And of course she couldn’t rely on her dark magic around her master. She slowly kicked some dirt over what she had thrown up and walked out of wood. She wanted nothing more than to rest. 

Morgan carefully dragged herself back to the castle. She didn’t even have the magic to hover there and spare her sore legs. When she got to her chambers she could sleep for the next couple of days and be ready to face the public. 

Much to her surprise the castle itself seemed to bustling with activity. Things had been so somber of late with constant ill tidings from the front of the war with the trolls, and yet here was the clear markings of a celebration. Banners hung from the castle walls and the halls echoed with the sounds of bards playing and singing. When she was within sight of the main entrance a knight standing there hailed her. 

“Lady Morgan! Lady Morgan!” He called to her. “How was your trip?”

“Fruitful.” She said, trying to hide the exhaustion in her voice. “And exhausting. What is happening? Is there some news from the front? Or my brother?”

“Nay my lady. Emrys bade us feast, so the next soldiers that leave for the front will remember and be filled with the fire of love for their home. Come join us!”

“Ah, of course.” Morgan gave the knight her best smile. Finally the old curmudgeon learns to have a fun and it when she’s so exhausted she can barely stand. “Well I am afraid my journey has taken more from me-”

“Aunt Morgan!” 

The excuse died on her lips as the teen boy, with shoulder length black hair came running up to her. Morgan smiled fondly as he ran up and gave her a tight hug. She hid her grimace of pain from the pressure on her body. 

“Aunt Morgan, you’re back just in time.” The young boy smiled up at her, though soon he would be as tall as she. “We are finally having a feast! I feel like everything has been so dower all the time, we can finally relax.”

He paused as he looked at her closely. She knew even with his own latent magic that he couldn’t sense the shadow of the dark magic she had used. However he still knew her to well, for her to hide everything from him. He could see her exhaustion on her face. His own contorted in sympathy. 

“Oh how rude of me. You must be tired from your trip. Why don’t you retire and I can have some wine and food sent up to you.”

Oh this boy. Her own nephew. And so much more to her. Everyone in the castle knew he was Arthur’s bastard, they whispered that he was born of some base born wench. But Morgan knew different. He had a special place in her heart. She smiled brightly at him. 

“Nonsense. I have the rest of my life to rest. How often do we get to have an actual feast? Lead the way, dear nephew.”

As she entered she removed the golden helmet she had worn during her ritual, and allowed her wild red curls to fall down her shoulders. She was tempted to retire to change out of her armor as well, but knew if she entered her room she would fall asleep before she could get dressed again. So she joined her nephew and the knights in the dining hall. 

* * *

Morgan walked, a little unsteady on her feet toward her chambers. Biggest downside of Faye blood was that even a sip of wine went straight to her head and she had significantly more than a sip. Maybe if she had not been so tired she would have showed more self restraint, but there was nothing wrong with a bit of fun. And her nephew had kept her cup filled for the entire night. 

She smiled wobbly to her self. He was a good lad. And while she would be hung over tomorrow and on top of her other pain might regret the festivities it was nice to see her nephew able to relax from all the pressure that was on him every day. With Arthur gone the weight of leading the remaining knights fell to his heir. 

A quickly muffled cry of pain echoed out of her as she stumbled on the last step and almost fell on her face. The wine must have been stronger than she thought. She felt like she could barely stand. The magic that normally blazed within her moved but slugglishly. No doubt due to enormous amount of magic she had used earlier. She carefully picked her down the  hall to her rooms. 

She opened the door with a sigh, all she wanted was to sleep for a week. 

As soon as she stepped inside the world felt like it flipped upside down. She fell to her knees as the door slammed shut behind her. A panicked look around showed her fear. All of the walls of her room had been covered with lead and iron panels. The faye magic inside her screamed in pain, and even had she not exhausted her magical stores would not be able to call on her ability. 

She looked more closely at the plates, and recognized the smith work. Of course, this was a completely human trap. If there had been any magic used even in her weakened state she would have sensed it. She groaned in pain as she tried to drag herself toward the door. If she could just open it, she could use her magic to call to her nephew. He would rouse the knights to help her. 

Before she could reach the door man stepped in front of her and pushed her back. She was too weak to fight him and her limbs felt like they were full of lead as he pulled chains across the room towards her. Iron chains. She tried to recoil in fear as the cold metal clasped itself to her bare skin, but he was too strong. 

“Iron chains. Lead and iron panels to block your magic. Iron powder in your drink to dull your senses.” Morgana’s mind was overwhelmed with pain. The pain from her earlier casting. The pain from the iron chains. And over it all, the pain of betrayal. She knew that voice. Merlin leaned down to her level so she could see his face. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed your little spell you are forging out in the woods? Do you think I will stand to have anyone use magic against me?”

She tried desperately to explain that the magic wasn’t an attack against him, but the pain in her head stopped her from speaking. Instead she reacted on instinct, pushing that pain through her and out targeting Merlin. 

A roar echoed in that small chamber as the shadows gathered, tearing themselves from the walls and forming into a great mouth. Morgan screamed and the shadows lunged forward. Merlin was knocked backwards and flung against the far wall. He was only barely able to form an emerald shield to protect himself. 

“Dark magic?” Merlin shouted as the green magic whirled around him driving the shadows back. “I should have known you would stoop to dark magic.”

Morgan howled again, driving the shadows against him. She could feel the furious pain from earlier returning with a vengeance and she could taste copper in her mouth as blood foamed at her lips. 

The shadows resided as the last of her magical energy drained away. She sagged against the burning hold of the iron chains. 

Merlin stepped forward drawing his sword. Morgan did her best to look up at him, pleading with her eyes. She always knew he would kill her if he found out she used dark magic. She just hoped that her master would continue to protect her brother and her nephew. 

He looked at her with a look that was almost just as loving as it had been, a look that was almost kind. 

"I am sorry." He whispered. 

Morgan's eyes grew wide as he pressed his blade to her arm, just below her wrist. The burning pain shot up her arm and she released a feral scream before consciousness was mercifully stolen from her.