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*
Merlin hated him.
Hated him.
“You don’t need someone like that scum-sucking prick anyway,” Morgana says, cackling to herself as she gleefully snips Tauren’s bulbous head off all the couples pictures, before tossing them into the crackling fireplace.
“I know, you’re right,” Merlin responds, handing her best friend another laminated photo and then preparing her own scissors. For the one in Merlin’s own hand, she clips herself out of the scene and flings Tauren in the flames.
Morgana watches her, a soft, understanding smile on her expression.
“That’s my brave girl,” she says, rubbing Merlin shoulder in encouragement as Merlin’s face goes red. Girl. That’s exactly who Merlin is.
Even if Tauren can’t wrap his head around it.
Merlin took her clothes and her favorite records and left as fast as she could. No more verbal abuse.
No more of any of it.
The first night, Tauren located Morgana’s flat, where Merlin agreed to hide for the time. He hollered unspeakably cruel things, until Morgana flashed her revolver and told him calmly to see your sorry arse out before the police show.
Nobody has heard from him since, not for three years. Merlin cut the negative ties with the friends of her ex-boyfriend, and they gladly backed off.
She didn’t leave Morgana’s flat, paying her share of the rent and food, and it’s been the best it’s been in a long damn time for Merlin.
They discovered the shoebox of mementos and Tauren’s photos, and Morgana lit their fireplace, eager to let Merlin begin another healing process.
“Did you land that receptionist interview at Arthur’s office?” Morgana asks suddenly, and then squeals as Merlin nods and grins, accepting the hug. “I’m so proud of you – I told you you could do it, I told you, Merlin!”
She did.
No one ever believed in Merlin like Morgana did, and she couldn’t be happier.
*