The Long Road Home, chs. 9 & 10
Here it is - what you have all been patiently waiting for for eight chapters! I'm very excited to finally be posting these. :)
Warnings: No spoilers, rated PG, high sap factor
Originally I was only going to post chapter 9, but then I decided that would be cruel. ENJOY! Thanks for your feedback so far and let me know what you think.
Chapter 9
The evening’s banquet was a most festive event, with people dancing rounds to lively music. Arthur was relieved that the most painful part - formally introducing Morgana to Tormod in front of the courtiers of Gleanntan - was done first, and thus over with. Now, they were seated at long tables in the banqueting hall where the meal had been served. Morgana and Tormod were seated at the head table. Arthur himself was seated with Renfrew and Bedwyr, and unfortunately - Tavis. The food had been prepared to impress, no doubt, with multiple meat pies and fancy desserts of marzipan. His appetite failed him, however, and he could only pick at a loaf of bread. Even the cider tasted strange, and he didn’t know if it was a regional ingredient or just his own tongue.
A plump young woman walked past the table, her red hair fasted in braids and pinned to her head, wearing a gown that barely concealed her sizeable bosom. She winked at Tavis, and he waved her over.
“Ah, of course. Sire, I’d like to introduce the Lady Morgana’s Maid of Honor, Lady Adara. She’ll be the primary maid, and also in charge of the rest of the maids serving our new queen.”
She batted her eyelashes at Arthur and curtseyed. “My Lord,” she said sweetly, almost purring. Spotting another gentleman across the room, she excused herself and sashayed over.
“I’m sorry, but Morgana won’t be requiring her services,” an unimpressed Arthur explained to Tavis. “It’s nothing personal, but she has her own maid from Camelot. They’ve been together for many years.”
“His Majesty’s rule is that Lady Morgana’s maid can only stay a month, to help her settle in. Then she must leave Gleanntan and the other maids will take over.” His eyes sparkling, he tapped Arthur’s shoulder playfully. “If you find yourself restless for company, Sire, let me assure you that Adara is one of the court’s most... charming ladies. I know first hand.”
Arthur made a face. “I know what you are implying, and that offends me.” Shifting uncomfortably, he could feel Morgana’s eyes boring into him from across the room, as though she knew what was being discussed.
Tavis waved off the concern. “Pardon me, Sire. I understand your desire to be discrete, and perhaps taking a lady inside the castle would be too risky. A man does have needs, however, and I can recommend two brothels on the other side of the village. They are of excellent quality… well, for whores.” He chuckled at his own joke. “The king has been using them since his last wife died.” Again, he chortled. “Though, from the looks of things, he won’t be needing to use them anymore.”
Reeling with sudden nausea, Arthur tossed his napkin on the table and stood up without explanation. The idea of that decrepit old man lying on top of Morgana, writhing and thrusting while moaning her name, made him sick. He needed fresh air. Pushing through the crowds of people, he stumbled to the nearest exit.
* ~ * ~ *
“Is the quail not to your liking? Ambassador Tavis reported that it was one of your favorite foods. Was there some mistake?”
Morgana and Tormod were the only ones still seated, as everyone else had finished their meal and had gotten up to socialize or dance. The old King was leaning over to address her, a spot of food hanging on his chin.
Speaking loudly, for the old man was nearly deaf, she replied, “Oh, it’s fine. I suppose I’m just… a little queasy from the journey still.” She forced a smile, an exercise she guessed she would soon become quite skilled in. She picked up her fork and tried to pick at the meat once again.
“Soon, I shall be overjoyed to hear if your stomach is queasy.”
I am nothing more than a vessel to carry his son, she thought, irritated. Morgana gave up on the quail, and resumed sipping wine. It wasn’t smart, on an empty stomach, but the warm burn it provided was enjoyable. Looking around the room, she saw that most people seemed to be having a wonderful time. Indeed, they knew how to throw a party in Gleanntan. It was more lively, the music more raucous than in Camelot. Uther always liked things to be totally under his control - even celebrations.
Adara, that sniveling girl who was to wait on her, was talking to Arthur, giggling as he stood near the back door of the hall. Morgana was relieved to see that, although he was smiling politely, he looked less than impressed. Gwen and Merlin were huddled together, no doubt feeling like outcasts - the servants of Gleanntan seemed to have chips on their shoulders. Bedwyr and Renfrew were drinking ale, having what looked to be a serious conversation with three knights of Gleanntan.
Kian sidled up beside her into the empty chair on her left. “So, what do you think, my Lady? How do you find the King?” He nodded toward where the old man was seated several chairs over.
“I find him distasteful, actually. I thought you said he was so wonderful?” She spoke softly, although there was little point because it wasn’t as if Tormod could possibly hear them.
Kian frowned. “I suppose it is different for you. We here at court, we aren’t dealing with him up close and... personal.” He blushed at the connotation of the word. “What I mean is, my Lady, he has expectations of you.”
“Yes, like that of a milk cow. I’m to produce offspring every year, or else I’ll end up on one of these platters.” She gestured to the piles of food before them.
Kian sighed. “I can’t help but notice how unhappy you are.”
“Pardon me?” Morgana was surprised, because he was the first person here to voice concern for her feelings.
“And I think I know the source. It’s because of your affections for Prince Arthur,” he stated quietly.
She fastened him with her steeliest glare. How dare a servant speak to her that way? “Don’t say such a thing,” she snapped. What truly bothered her, however, was the truth of Kian’s words. Were they that obvious?
“I don’t mean to offend you, my Lady, I just wanted you to know something. I believe Gleanntan will be a better place with you in it.”
She was humbled by the faith he had in her, already. His sentiment was genuine, not false and self-serving like the ambassador Tavis. And how fortunate she was to have made a friend who would be there in her new home, in her new life.
“If you ever need anything,” he went on, “Anything at all, just let me know. I... I don’t have many friends here. I’d like it if we could be friends.”
“Thank you,” she said meekly, struggling to fight back tears. “I already think of you as my friend, and I will remember that, Kian.” Wine. She needed more wine.
He paused thoughtfully. “May I tell you something? I had a dream, my Lady, as I often do…”. An alternate meaning hung on his words, and Morgana was instantly curious.
“You are a Seer?” she hissed. Perhaps this was the reason she had felt a kinship with him all along. She had never met anyone else who had these dreams.
“Some could say that. I’m young... my powers, whatever they may be, haven’t developed.” He shrugged, and Morgana was amazed at his nonchalant attitude.
“You should be careful,” she warned him, instinctively protective after growing up under Uther’s hate of magic.
“In this kingdom, magic is not a crime, nor a sin, like in Camelot. That being, I am only a servant, so I don’t go around professing this. I would appreciate if you not tell anyone.”
“You can trust me, Kian,” she smiled. “Just as I trust you. Now, what did you see in your dream?” Or do I really want to know?, she thought.
“My Lady,” he began. “I saw you, and you were wearing a crown,” he explained pointedly.
She rolled her eyes, chuckling. “That hardly requires magic.”
He held up a finger, and she waited for him to finish. “But not only were you wearing a crown, my Lady, you were happy.”
With a deep sigh, Morgana looked around her at the hall full of people who were strangers, at the king who was being hand-fed a gruel by a servant because he could not chew. “I was a happy queen? Then perhaps you do not have the Sight after all.”
* ~ * ~ *
The wedding was two days later, set for five o clock in the evening. The hours until then were passed with various celebratory meals, a masque, and a jousting tournament. Both Arthur and Morgana had managed to survive in a state of numbness, with limited time together and each hoping for some sort of catastrophe to set the world back several weeks.
The morning of the wedding, when Arthur woke up from what was probably the worst sleep of his life, he knew what he had to do. Still lying in bed, he looked over to where Merlin was bedded down on the floor.
“Merlin,” he said quietly. When he got no response, he tried being louder. “Merlin!” Nothing. Snatching a spare pillow, he hurled it with great accuracy at Merlin’s head.
“Oww! What was that for?” Merlin mumbled sleepily. He rubbed his eyes and glared at Arthur.
“I want to tell you something important.”
“It couldn’t have waited until I was awake?”
“You’re awake now. Listen, I’m leaving this afternoon. For Camelot.” Then he added, “By myself.”
“Why?” Merlin asked. “The wedding isn’t until five o clock.”
How could his manservant manage to be so wise at times, and so downright dense at others? “I know it’s not til five, you buffoon, that is exactly why I want to be gone.”
“Oh.” The tone of Merlin’s voice showed that he truly understood now. “You don’t want to be here for the wedding.”
“Of course I don’t. I don’t trust myself not to do something… something that would shame my father and Camelot. Because frankly, I can’t hold back much longer.”
“What’s the worst that could happen? If you and Morgana just, I don’t know, ran away?”
“Not much would happen,” Arthur snorted. “They’d find us, drag us back, I’d be sentenced to the dungeon and war between Camelot and Gleanntan would break out. Morgana would only end up being more miserable in a marriage to that old goat.”
Merlin pointed out, “Arthur, you shouldn’t go on such a long journey alone. I’ll leave with you.”
“I’ll be fine. I want you to stay here, look after Morgana. She trusts you, and she needs all the friends she can get right now. Let Sir Renfrew stand in for me at the ceremony, and he can deliver the dowry. Just tell Tavis that I was ill, or something. And tomorrow at first light, you and the knights can return to Camelot.”
“Won’t she be angry at you for leaving?” Merlin questioned. “You don’t want to leave things like that.”
Arthur stared at the ceiling and sighed. “Perhaps it is better for her to be angry, than heartbroken.”
--
Later that afternoon, he rapped on Morgana’s door with his signature knock. When she called for him to come in, he opened the door to find her alone, dressed in a sheer dressing down, standing in front of the full length mirror.
“It’s very odd,” she said simply. “I’m dressing for my wedding, and yet I feel so… disconnected. This should be a happy moment in a woman’s life.”
Arthur said nothing, unsure of how to break the news to her that he was leaving. But then she did it for him.
“You aren’t staying.” It was a sad statement, not a question. She had guessed it all along. She looked at him for confirmation, and he nodded. “When are you leaving?”
“Now. Merlin has gone to the stable to ready my horse.”
“Oh.”
He leaned against the wall, steadying his trembling knees, fighting to explain himself. “I can’t do it, Morgana. I can’t see you in the dress, I can’t see you get married to him.” What if he never saw her again? What if she died? Hell, his own mother had died in childbirth. What if Morgana begot an heir, only to lose her life in the process? God, no, he couldn’t think of that.
She was not angry, as he had expected. “I understand. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t stay, either.” Suddenly, she turned and walked towards him. “I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade any of it. I wouldn’t trade a single minute of the time we had together… even if it could have spared me this pain.” At that, her voice cracked, and tears began to dampen her cheeks. “Thank you for everything, Arthur, every single moment.”
Arthur shook his head. “I should thank you. I’m a better man for having known you.” If not for her influence, he would be different, he would be less of a man.
They still remained apart, afraid that if they touched, both of their composures would falter.
“I’ll write you often,” he promised. “I’ll be sure to give you all the court gossip.”
“Be careful. I’m sure they’ll read my mail.” She rolled her eyes. “They are paranoid about spies, you know. Anyway, I’ll be back to Camelot this winter. Remember, Uther said we’ll be coming to visit for Yule. Me... and Tormod.”
“Try to resist his charms. Don’t go falling in love with the old crow.” Arthur tried to laugh, tried to lighten the moment.
“Never.” She looked at him pleadingly. “When he is gone, will you still want me?”
He didn’t wait a breath before answering. “Always.” He smirked, their trademark banter being his defense mechanism. “Even if it is thirty years from now, and you have become a wrinkled, old witch.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What if it isn’t quite that long, and I am a young witch?”
“All the better.”
Morgana laughed in spite of the pain. But the minutes were ticking by, and she glanced nervously at the vanity where her veil and shoes were propped up. “I have to get ready.”
“I know.” He shuffled his feet, unsure of how to put his profound emotions into words. “I’ve been with you every day of my life since I was ten, how am I to say goodbye now?” Now that the moment he had been dreading for weeks was here, he felt a suffocating panic. This could not be happening.
Morgana shook her head. “Don’t say that word! Don’t say goodbye.” Suddenly, she threw herself into his arms with such force that both of them nearly toppled over. She hugged him so tight, as though he was the only thing anchoring her to earth, keeping her from rolling down a cliff.
“I swear to you that I will love you until the day I die, that I will think of you every moment,” he choked out. Men didn’t cry, obviously, but for some reason his throat was closing up. Perhaps the room hadn’t been dusted properly.
Taking her face in both his hands, he kissed her. Hard . He knew he shouldn’t kiss her like this - as though she was his only source for oxygen, like a man starving for air - with her about to marry another man this day.
And then, leaving her lips still flushed and warm from the kiss, he was gone.
As Arthur galloped out of Gleanntan, he told himself that the sting in his eyes was merely from the wind whipping his face.
Chapter 10
It was Gwen who found Morgana crumpled on the floor, staring blankly at the wall. She had cried every ounce of tears, and was trapped in a mental fog of grief and fear.
Now, the maid was pressing a cool, damp cloth over Morgana’s eyes. “This should take down the swelling,” she murmured soothingly. “Come on, Morgana, pull yourself together. I know you can.” She passed her a cup of wine.
“Perhaps they’ll think I’m shedding tears of joy,” Morgana replied sarcastically, wiping her mouth. “Do you think I’ll ever see him again?”
Gwen didn’t even have to ask who Morgana meant. “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. Then she put her hand on Morgana’s cheek. “But what I do know is that you are the bravest woman I know. You will survive this.”
Looking at her beloved friend, Morgana tried to summon courage, but her usual reservoir had been drained. This can not - will not - happen, she thought.
Then there was a soft knock on the door, and Adara entered, carrying a bouquet of white lilies. “His Majesty sends these to you, my Lady, along with a message of his love,” she explained, bowing. “He asks that I help you prepare for the wedding.”
Even though she only wanted Gwen attending to her at this time, Morgana was too emotionally exhausted to argue. She nodded and numbly accepted the bouquet. She never cared much for lilies, especially white ones. In the late summer, roses the color of fresh peaches bloomed in the gardens behind Camelot. Arthur had given her some for her thirteenth birthday, and she had kept them long after they were and brown. From beneath the fabric of her shift, Morgana fingered Igraine’s ring. It was all she had left of Arthur.
Both Adara and Gwen helped her into the wedding gown that she was given to wear. Apparently it had been worn by Tormod’s previous brides, along with his mother and grandmother. The only adjustments it needed were a few pins placed by Adara around the waist. It was lovely, ivory satin with countless pearls sewn into the fabric. It was dreadfully heavy, however, and smelled of mildew. Violet water was sprinkled on the fabric to attempt to counteract the souring. Gwen brushed her hair until it shone, and placed a pearl barrette behind her ear.
After she stepped into her shoes, Morgana inspected herself in the mirror. Her face was taught and strained, nearly as white as the gown she was wearing. It was almost silly, to see herself looking so formal and royal. A bride? To some old king? Unthinkable, even though it was happening right now.
“You look beautiful,” Gwen gushed.
Adara nodded her agreement. “The entire court will be transfixed, my Lady,” the red-haired girl said.
There was a knock, and Merlin poked his head into the room, looking almost apologetic. “They are ready to begin the ceremony.”
~ * ~ * ~
As he rode south out of Gleanntan, Arthur grew more and more angry… he was downright pissed, in fact. How many times throughout his life had he put aside his own beliefs, his own heart, because of duty to his father, and to Camelot? He was also angry at himself, for failing to do anything, for failing Morgana. Hell, even Merlin had tried to suggest alternate ideas, but Arthur had allowed fear of repercussions to control him. Perhaps, he wondered, being a king meant doing what you thought was right even when the rest of the world disagreed. And being a king didn’t mean anything to him anymore… not without Morgana as his queen.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Even if it was, he could still take her, and they could live in a hut in the woods and no one would ever bother them with duty again. Yanking the reins so hard that his horse snorted in protest, Arthur veered around and back towards Gleanntan.
~*~*~
The walk from her chambers to the church seemed to pass in a blur - one minute she was standing at her mirror, the next she was in the castle courtyard. It was happening like a dream, as though she was were swimming, pulled by a current. Here she was, about to be the wife to a king she couldn’t stand, in a castle she didn’t like, around people she didn’t know.
At the chapel (which admittedly was beautifully decorated with streamers and flowers), a cheerful Kian was leaning up against the door, waiting for them. His ragged clothes had been cleaned, and possibly even starched, but his hair was still impossibly messy. His eyes widened when he spotted Morgana, and he dropped into a rather dramatic bow. “My Lady,” he breathed. “Your soon-to-be-Majesty.”
“No need to be so formal, Kian,” she said softly, smiling despite herself. “My coronation won’t be til next week, anyway.” Such a sweet boy, he was a bright spot in all of this. She held out her hand to him, which he kissed.
Tavis greeted them in the arched entryway of the church, all business as usual. “My Lady. I was sorry to hear of Prince Arthur’s sudden illness.” A hint of sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Anyway, after the ceremony, we’ll have the celebratory feast in the banquet hall. You’ll be excused to your chambers after that, to make ready for your new husband’s visit.”
Morgana’s jaw clenched. She would have to kiss Tormod in a few minutes, and later there would be much more. She didn’t know if she could survive the bedding. Poor Gwen was going to have to sleep in the maids’ quarters from now on, and Merlin had agreed to stash Delia in Renfrew’s and Bedyr’s chambers for the night. Inside a drawer by her bed was a crisp new nightgown, and more importantly - the vial Gaius had given her.
Tavis signaled to someone inside, and the minstrels because to play their lutes and harps. Within moments, the music swelled to fill the large chapel. “I guess that’s your cue, then,” he said, as he bowed and moved aside.
Step by step, Morgana moved numbly into the chapel. The people gasped when they saw her, murmuring their approval and nodding as they rose from the benches.
“I can’t,” she whimpered, pausing.
“I’ll be right here behind you,” Gwen promised, a hand on her back.
She felt so many eyes on her as she walked, people from all over the kingdom having come to see her wedding. They were smiling, so happy. Why couldn’t they see that she was screaming inside? This was happening. She was about to get married, about to hand over her life to some irascible old man who wanted her for procreation and nothing else.
The aisle was long - so long - and she feared her shaky knees would never support her the whole way. Sir Renfrew, dressed in Camelot’s familiar colors and set to be her escort in Arthur’s absence, held out his arm and she clung to it gratefully.
Each step she took felt like a betrayal - a betrayal to herself, to Arthur, to the future they had planned. She cursed herself for letting it go this far - why had she bought into Uther’s threats? I can’t do this, she thought. I truly cannot.
Her heart was thudding as Renfrew lead her up the aisle. Several times she looked over her shoulder toward the door. I can run. There is still time. What she would do once she left, she wasn’t sure. But freedom was still there, taunting her.
They reached the altar, and there stood her almost-husband, dressed in elaborate jacquard robes of white and gold, which seemed to swallow up his shriveled figure. He was wearing his ceremonial crown - larger and more bejeweled than his regular one. Judging from the wide-eyed look he was giving her as she approached, he was blown away by Morgana’s appearance. He was flanked on either side by his heir and nephew, along with his secretary, and the priest who would marry them. The nausea swirled around her stomach again, threatening to choke her.
As she stopped up next to Tormod, Renfrew released her arm. The king smiled at her, flashing his horrid teeth, and then began to cough. He coughed once, then a second cough ricocheted into several more. At first no one seemed concerned, as they were used to his fits. But as he continued hacking without pause and tears popped from his eyes, the musicians ceased playing, and the priest looked alarmed.
“Are you all right, your Majesty?” the priest asked.
The old man, red-faced and wheezing silently, shook his head. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets as he clutched at his spasming chest. Morgana stared at him, horrified.
Suddenly, emitting a wet, rattling sound, Tormod toppled forward and straight into Morgana. Before she knew what was happening, she was on the floor, on her back, with the old king on top of her. His body began to spasm, so hard that it caused her to shake as well. The weight of his body and the heavy robes he wore made her unable to move. His crown had lodged against her neck, leaving a cut on her chin.
Then - suddenly, eerily - he was still.
Pinned beneath his body, his frozen face close to hers, all she should see was the upturned whites of his eyes, his blue tongue dangling out. His mouth was nearly on hers, his rotten and sour breath overwhelming her.
With all the air she had left in her lungs, Morgana screamed.
It took a moment for the people to realize what was happening, as there was initially a shocked silence. Then, cries of panic filled the chapel, and people ran about, calling for the physician. Morgana thought she heard someone nearby say it was ‘too late’. Was he dead? She couldn’t tell - in fact she could hardly breathe from where she was pinned beneath him. Feeling disoriented and a bit panicky, she screamed again, but it seemed as though she had been forgotten. Where was Gwen? Did no one realize she was here? Had the old thing actually died on top of her?
Then, thankfully, Kian was kneeling at her side. She had never been so glad to see anyone before in her life. “My Lady? Are you all right?” He reached out to rub her arm gently, and even though the gesture was highly inappropriate, she welcomed the comfort.
Wrenching one arm free, she reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “Get him off, Kian,” she begged, tears of sheer terror and disgust filling her eyes. “Please get him off of me.”
“I need some help!” Kian shouted, leaping to his feet, and then everyone finally seemed to realize the bride pinned beneath her collapsed fiancé. Renfrew and Bedwyr reappeared, and with Kian helped to roll the limp old man off of her. Free, but still traumatized, she cried out, trembling all over. Tears began to fall, but she didn’t know exactly why. She wasn’t sad, really, just shocked.
The court physician arrived, bag in hand, and he instantly began to check Tormod for signs of life. Dozens of people crowded around him, shouting prayers and wringing their hands, nearly trampling Morgana in the process.
Stumbling to her feet, she moved away from them and over to a nearby bench, where she sat and buried her face into her hands. Gwen appeared at her side, rubbing her shoulder. Kian turned to another servant behind him. “Fetch me some water.”
She clutched at the goblet and drank, gripping Kian’s wrist with her other hand. “Is he… is he…?” she dared to ask.
“I don’t know, my Lady,” he replied. “It doesn’t look good.”
The court physician was bent over Tormod as everyone waited in near-silence. He pressed his fingers to the king’s neck, then listened to his chest, and finally held a small mirror under the nose. Looking up, he shook his head, letting the citizens know what they feared was true.
“He’s gone,” he said simply. “God rest His Majesty’s soul.”
A female courtier released a shrill wail of grief, and pandemonium once again filled the church.
Morgana felt more relief than anything else, but also consequently felt guilt. How could she feel glad about another person dying? This was all happening so fast, so suddenly. But suddenly, her future had been handed back to her by the fates, and this time she was going to grasp it.
Merlin finally arrived, breathless and kneeling in front of her. “Can I get you anything, my Lady?”
“Arthur,” she whispered urgently in his ear. “Get Arthur.”
--
Chapter 11 here: http://a-boleyn1230.livejournal.com/139025.html
Warnings: No spoilers, rated PG, high sap factor
Originally I was only going to post chapter 9, but then I decided that would be cruel. ENJOY! Thanks for your feedback so far and let me know what you think.
Chapter 9
The evening’s banquet was a most festive event, with people dancing rounds to lively music. Arthur was relieved that the most painful part - formally introducing Morgana to Tormod in front of the courtiers of Gleanntan - was done first, and thus over with. Now, they were seated at long tables in the banqueting hall where the meal had been served. Morgana and Tormod were seated at the head table. Arthur himself was seated with Renfrew and Bedwyr, and unfortunately - Tavis. The food had been prepared to impress, no doubt, with multiple meat pies and fancy desserts of marzipan. His appetite failed him, however, and he could only pick at a loaf of bread. Even the cider tasted strange, and he didn’t know if it was a regional ingredient or just his own tongue.
A plump young woman walked past the table, her red hair fasted in braids and pinned to her head, wearing a gown that barely concealed her sizeable bosom. She winked at Tavis, and he waved her over.
“Ah, of course. Sire, I’d like to introduce the Lady Morgana’s Maid of Honor, Lady Adara. She’ll be the primary maid, and also in charge of the rest of the maids serving our new queen.”
She batted her eyelashes at Arthur and curtseyed. “My Lord,” she said sweetly, almost purring. Spotting another gentleman across the room, she excused herself and sashayed over.
“I’m sorry, but Morgana won’t be requiring her services,” an unimpressed Arthur explained to Tavis. “It’s nothing personal, but she has her own maid from Camelot. They’ve been together for many years.”
“His Majesty’s rule is that Lady Morgana’s maid can only stay a month, to help her settle in. Then she must leave Gleanntan and the other maids will take over.” His eyes sparkling, he tapped Arthur’s shoulder playfully. “If you find yourself restless for company, Sire, let me assure you that Adara is one of the court’s most... charming ladies. I know first hand.”
Arthur made a face. “I know what you are implying, and that offends me.” Shifting uncomfortably, he could feel Morgana’s eyes boring into him from across the room, as though she knew what was being discussed.
Tavis waved off the concern. “Pardon me, Sire. I understand your desire to be discrete, and perhaps taking a lady inside the castle would be too risky. A man does have needs, however, and I can recommend two brothels on the other side of the village. They are of excellent quality… well, for whores.” He chuckled at his own joke. “The king has been using them since his last wife died.” Again, he chortled. “Though, from the looks of things, he won’t be needing to use them anymore.”
Reeling with sudden nausea, Arthur tossed his napkin on the table and stood up without explanation. The idea of that decrepit old man lying on top of Morgana, writhing and thrusting while moaning her name, made him sick. He needed fresh air. Pushing through the crowds of people, he stumbled to the nearest exit.
* ~ * ~ *
“Is the quail not to your liking? Ambassador Tavis reported that it was one of your favorite foods. Was there some mistake?”
Morgana and Tormod were the only ones still seated, as everyone else had finished their meal and had gotten up to socialize or dance. The old King was leaning over to address her, a spot of food hanging on his chin.
Speaking loudly, for the old man was nearly deaf, she replied, “Oh, it’s fine. I suppose I’m just… a little queasy from the journey still.” She forced a smile, an exercise she guessed she would soon become quite skilled in. She picked up her fork and tried to pick at the meat once again.
“Soon, I shall be overjoyed to hear if your stomach is queasy.”
I am nothing more than a vessel to carry his son, she thought, irritated. Morgana gave up on the quail, and resumed sipping wine. It wasn’t smart, on an empty stomach, but the warm burn it provided was enjoyable. Looking around the room, she saw that most people seemed to be having a wonderful time. Indeed, they knew how to throw a party in Gleanntan. It was more lively, the music more raucous than in Camelot. Uther always liked things to be totally under his control - even celebrations.
Adara, that sniveling girl who was to wait on her, was talking to Arthur, giggling as he stood near the back door of the hall. Morgana was relieved to see that, although he was smiling politely, he looked less than impressed. Gwen and Merlin were huddled together, no doubt feeling like outcasts - the servants of Gleanntan seemed to have chips on their shoulders. Bedwyr and Renfrew were drinking ale, having what looked to be a serious conversation with three knights of Gleanntan.
Kian sidled up beside her into the empty chair on her left. “So, what do you think, my Lady? How do you find the King?” He nodded toward where the old man was seated several chairs over.
“I find him distasteful, actually. I thought you said he was so wonderful?” She spoke softly, although there was little point because it wasn’t as if Tormod could possibly hear them.
Kian frowned. “I suppose it is different for you. We here at court, we aren’t dealing with him up close and... personal.” He blushed at the connotation of the word. “What I mean is, my Lady, he has expectations of you.”
“Yes, like that of a milk cow. I’m to produce offspring every year, or else I’ll end up on one of these platters.” She gestured to the piles of food before them.
Kian sighed. “I can’t help but notice how unhappy you are.”
“Pardon me?” Morgana was surprised, because he was the first person here to voice concern for her feelings.
“And I think I know the source. It’s because of your affections for Prince Arthur,” he stated quietly.
She fastened him with her steeliest glare. How dare a servant speak to her that way? “Don’t say such a thing,” she snapped. What truly bothered her, however, was the truth of Kian’s words. Were they that obvious?
“I don’t mean to offend you, my Lady, I just wanted you to know something. I believe Gleanntan will be a better place with you in it.”
She was humbled by the faith he had in her, already. His sentiment was genuine, not false and self-serving like the ambassador Tavis. And how fortunate she was to have made a friend who would be there in her new home, in her new life.
“If you ever need anything,” he went on, “Anything at all, just let me know. I... I don’t have many friends here. I’d like it if we could be friends.”
“Thank you,” she said meekly, struggling to fight back tears. “I already think of you as my friend, and I will remember that, Kian.” Wine. She needed more wine.
He paused thoughtfully. “May I tell you something? I had a dream, my Lady, as I often do…”. An alternate meaning hung on his words, and Morgana was instantly curious.
“You are a Seer?” she hissed. Perhaps this was the reason she had felt a kinship with him all along. She had never met anyone else who had these dreams.
“Some could say that. I’m young... my powers, whatever they may be, haven’t developed.” He shrugged, and Morgana was amazed at his nonchalant attitude.
“You should be careful,” she warned him, instinctively protective after growing up under Uther’s hate of magic.
“In this kingdom, magic is not a crime, nor a sin, like in Camelot. That being, I am only a servant, so I don’t go around professing this. I would appreciate if you not tell anyone.”
“You can trust me, Kian,” she smiled. “Just as I trust you. Now, what did you see in your dream?” Or do I really want to know?, she thought.
“My Lady,” he began. “I saw you, and you were wearing a crown,” he explained pointedly.
She rolled her eyes, chuckling. “That hardly requires magic.”
He held up a finger, and she waited for him to finish. “But not only were you wearing a crown, my Lady, you were happy.”
With a deep sigh, Morgana looked around her at the hall full of people who were strangers, at the king who was being hand-fed a gruel by a servant because he could not chew. “I was a happy queen? Then perhaps you do not have the Sight after all.”
* ~ * ~ *
The wedding was two days later, set for five o clock in the evening. The hours until then were passed with various celebratory meals, a masque, and a jousting tournament. Both Arthur and Morgana had managed to survive in a state of numbness, with limited time together and each hoping for some sort of catastrophe to set the world back several weeks.
The morning of the wedding, when Arthur woke up from what was probably the worst sleep of his life, he knew what he had to do. Still lying in bed, he looked over to where Merlin was bedded down on the floor.
“Merlin,” he said quietly. When he got no response, he tried being louder. “Merlin!” Nothing. Snatching a spare pillow, he hurled it with great accuracy at Merlin’s head.
“Oww! What was that for?” Merlin mumbled sleepily. He rubbed his eyes and glared at Arthur.
“I want to tell you something important.”
“It couldn’t have waited until I was awake?”
“You’re awake now. Listen, I’m leaving this afternoon. For Camelot.” Then he added, “By myself.”
“Why?” Merlin asked. “The wedding isn’t until five o clock.”
How could his manservant manage to be so wise at times, and so downright dense at others? “I know it’s not til five, you buffoon, that is exactly why I want to be gone.”
“Oh.” The tone of Merlin’s voice showed that he truly understood now. “You don’t want to be here for the wedding.”
“Of course I don’t. I don’t trust myself not to do something… something that would shame my father and Camelot. Because frankly, I can’t hold back much longer.”
“What’s the worst that could happen? If you and Morgana just, I don’t know, ran away?”
“Not much would happen,” Arthur snorted. “They’d find us, drag us back, I’d be sentenced to the dungeon and war between Camelot and Gleanntan would break out. Morgana would only end up being more miserable in a marriage to that old goat.”
Merlin pointed out, “Arthur, you shouldn’t go on such a long journey alone. I’ll leave with you.”
“I’ll be fine. I want you to stay here, look after Morgana. She trusts you, and she needs all the friends she can get right now. Let Sir Renfrew stand in for me at the ceremony, and he can deliver the dowry. Just tell Tavis that I was ill, or something. And tomorrow at first light, you and the knights can return to Camelot.”
“Won’t she be angry at you for leaving?” Merlin questioned. “You don’t want to leave things like that.”
Arthur stared at the ceiling and sighed. “Perhaps it is better for her to be angry, than heartbroken.”
--
Later that afternoon, he rapped on Morgana’s door with his signature knock. When she called for him to come in, he opened the door to find her alone, dressed in a sheer dressing down, standing in front of the full length mirror.
“It’s very odd,” she said simply. “I’m dressing for my wedding, and yet I feel so… disconnected. This should be a happy moment in a woman’s life.”
Arthur said nothing, unsure of how to break the news to her that he was leaving. But then she did it for him.
“You aren’t staying.” It was a sad statement, not a question. She had guessed it all along. She looked at him for confirmation, and he nodded. “When are you leaving?”
“Now. Merlin has gone to the stable to ready my horse.”
“Oh.”
He leaned against the wall, steadying his trembling knees, fighting to explain himself. “I can’t do it, Morgana. I can’t see you in the dress, I can’t see you get married to him.” What if he never saw her again? What if she died? Hell, his own mother had died in childbirth. What if Morgana begot an heir, only to lose her life in the process? God, no, he couldn’t think of that.
She was not angry, as he had expected. “I understand. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t stay, either.” Suddenly, she turned and walked towards him. “I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade any of it. I wouldn’t trade a single minute of the time we had together… even if it could have spared me this pain.” At that, her voice cracked, and tears began to dampen her cheeks. “Thank you for everything, Arthur, every single moment.”
Arthur shook his head. “I should thank you. I’m a better man for having known you.” If not for her influence, he would be different, he would be less of a man.
They still remained apart, afraid that if they touched, both of their composures would falter.
“I’ll write you often,” he promised. “I’ll be sure to give you all the court gossip.”
“Be careful. I’m sure they’ll read my mail.” She rolled her eyes. “They are paranoid about spies, you know. Anyway, I’ll be back to Camelot this winter. Remember, Uther said we’ll be coming to visit for Yule. Me... and Tormod.”
“Try to resist his charms. Don’t go falling in love with the old crow.” Arthur tried to laugh, tried to lighten the moment.
“Never.” She looked at him pleadingly. “When he is gone, will you still want me?”
He didn’t wait a breath before answering. “Always.” He smirked, their trademark banter being his defense mechanism. “Even if it is thirty years from now, and you have become a wrinkled, old witch.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What if it isn’t quite that long, and I am a young witch?”
“All the better.”
Morgana laughed in spite of the pain. But the minutes were ticking by, and she glanced nervously at the vanity where her veil and shoes were propped up. “I have to get ready.”
“I know.” He shuffled his feet, unsure of how to put his profound emotions into words. “I’ve been with you every day of my life since I was ten, how am I to say goodbye now?” Now that the moment he had been dreading for weeks was here, he felt a suffocating panic. This could not be happening.
Morgana shook her head. “Don’t say that word! Don’t say goodbye.” Suddenly, she threw herself into his arms with such force that both of them nearly toppled over. She hugged him so tight, as though he was the only thing anchoring her to earth, keeping her from rolling down a cliff.
“I swear to you that I will love you until the day I die, that I will think of you every moment,” he choked out. Men didn’t cry, obviously, but for some reason his throat was closing up. Perhaps the room hadn’t been dusted properly.
Taking her face in both his hands, he kissed her. Hard . He knew he shouldn’t kiss her like this - as though she was his only source for oxygen, like a man starving for air - with her about to marry another man this day.
And then, leaving her lips still flushed and warm from the kiss, he was gone.
As Arthur galloped out of Gleanntan, he told himself that the sting in his eyes was merely from the wind whipping his face.
Chapter 10
It was Gwen who found Morgana crumpled on the floor, staring blankly at the wall. She had cried every ounce of tears, and was trapped in a mental fog of grief and fear.
Now, the maid was pressing a cool, damp cloth over Morgana’s eyes. “This should take down the swelling,” she murmured soothingly. “Come on, Morgana, pull yourself together. I know you can.” She passed her a cup of wine.
“Perhaps they’ll think I’m shedding tears of joy,” Morgana replied sarcastically, wiping her mouth. “Do you think I’ll ever see him again?”
Gwen didn’t even have to ask who Morgana meant. “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. Then she put her hand on Morgana’s cheek. “But what I do know is that you are the bravest woman I know. You will survive this.”
Looking at her beloved friend, Morgana tried to summon courage, but her usual reservoir had been drained. This can not - will not - happen, she thought.
Then there was a soft knock on the door, and Adara entered, carrying a bouquet of white lilies. “His Majesty sends these to you, my Lady, along with a message of his love,” she explained, bowing. “He asks that I help you prepare for the wedding.”
Even though she only wanted Gwen attending to her at this time, Morgana was too emotionally exhausted to argue. She nodded and numbly accepted the bouquet. She never cared much for lilies, especially white ones. In the late summer, roses the color of fresh peaches bloomed in the gardens behind Camelot. Arthur had given her some for her thirteenth birthday, and she had kept them long after they were and brown. From beneath the fabric of her shift, Morgana fingered Igraine’s ring. It was all she had left of Arthur.
Both Adara and Gwen helped her into the wedding gown that she was given to wear. Apparently it had been worn by Tormod’s previous brides, along with his mother and grandmother. The only adjustments it needed were a few pins placed by Adara around the waist. It was lovely, ivory satin with countless pearls sewn into the fabric. It was dreadfully heavy, however, and smelled of mildew. Violet water was sprinkled on the fabric to attempt to counteract the souring. Gwen brushed her hair until it shone, and placed a pearl barrette behind her ear.
After she stepped into her shoes, Morgana inspected herself in the mirror. Her face was taught and strained, nearly as white as the gown she was wearing. It was almost silly, to see herself looking so formal and royal. A bride? To some old king? Unthinkable, even though it was happening right now.
“You look beautiful,” Gwen gushed.
Adara nodded her agreement. “The entire court will be transfixed, my Lady,” the red-haired girl said.
There was a knock, and Merlin poked his head into the room, looking almost apologetic. “They are ready to begin the ceremony.”
~ * ~ * ~
As he rode south out of Gleanntan, Arthur grew more and more angry… he was downright pissed, in fact. How many times throughout his life had he put aside his own beliefs, his own heart, because of duty to his father, and to Camelot? He was also angry at himself, for failing to do anything, for failing Morgana. Hell, even Merlin had tried to suggest alternate ideas, but Arthur had allowed fear of repercussions to control him. Perhaps, he wondered, being a king meant doing what you thought was right even when the rest of the world disagreed. And being a king didn’t mean anything to him anymore… not without Morgana as his queen.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Even if it was, he could still take her, and they could live in a hut in the woods and no one would ever bother them with duty again. Yanking the reins so hard that his horse snorted in protest, Arthur veered around and back towards Gleanntan.
~*~*~
The walk from her chambers to the church seemed to pass in a blur - one minute she was standing at her mirror, the next she was in the castle courtyard. It was happening like a dream, as though she was were swimming, pulled by a current. Here she was, about to be the wife to a king she couldn’t stand, in a castle she didn’t like, around people she didn’t know.
At the chapel (which admittedly was beautifully decorated with streamers and flowers), a cheerful Kian was leaning up against the door, waiting for them. His ragged clothes had been cleaned, and possibly even starched, but his hair was still impossibly messy. His eyes widened when he spotted Morgana, and he dropped into a rather dramatic bow. “My Lady,” he breathed. “Your soon-to-be-Majesty.”
“No need to be so formal, Kian,” she said softly, smiling despite herself. “My coronation won’t be til next week, anyway.” Such a sweet boy, he was a bright spot in all of this. She held out her hand to him, which he kissed.
Tavis greeted them in the arched entryway of the church, all business as usual. “My Lady. I was sorry to hear of Prince Arthur’s sudden illness.” A hint of sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Anyway, after the ceremony, we’ll have the celebratory feast in the banquet hall. You’ll be excused to your chambers after that, to make ready for your new husband’s visit.”
Morgana’s jaw clenched. She would have to kiss Tormod in a few minutes, and later there would be much more. She didn’t know if she could survive the bedding. Poor Gwen was going to have to sleep in the maids’ quarters from now on, and Merlin had agreed to stash Delia in Renfrew’s and Bedyr’s chambers for the night. Inside a drawer by her bed was a crisp new nightgown, and more importantly - the vial Gaius had given her.
Tavis signaled to someone inside, and the minstrels because to play their lutes and harps. Within moments, the music swelled to fill the large chapel. “I guess that’s your cue, then,” he said, as he bowed and moved aside.
Step by step, Morgana moved numbly into the chapel. The people gasped when they saw her, murmuring their approval and nodding as they rose from the benches.
“I can’t,” she whimpered, pausing.
“I’ll be right here behind you,” Gwen promised, a hand on her back.
She felt so many eyes on her as she walked, people from all over the kingdom having come to see her wedding. They were smiling, so happy. Why couldn’t they see that she was screaming inside? This was happening. She was about to get married, about to hand over her life to some irascible old man who wanted her for procreation and nothing else.
The aisle was long - so long - and she feared her shaky knees would never support her the whole way. Sir Renfrew, dressed in Camelot’s familiar colors and set to be her escort in Arthur’s absence, held out his arm and she clung to it gratefully.
Each step she took felt like a betrayal - a betrayal to herself, to Arthur, to the future they had planned. She cursed herself for letting it go this far - why had she bought into Uther’s threats? I can’t do this, she thought. I truly cannot.
Her heart was thudding as Renfrew lead her up the aisle. Several times she looked over her shoulder toward the door. I can run. There is still time. What she would do once she left, she wasn’t sure. But freedom was still there, taunting her.
They reached the altar, and there stood her almost-husband, dressed in elaborate jacquard robes of white and gold, which seemed to swallow up his shriveled figure. He was wearing his ceremonial crown - larger and more bejeweled than his regular one. Judging from the wide-eyed look he was giving her as she approached, he was blown away by Morgana’s appearance. He was flanked on either side by his heir and nephew, along with his secretary, and the priest who would marry them. The nausea swirled around her stomach again, threatening to choke her.
As she stopped up next to Tormod, Renfrew released her arm. The king smiled at her, flashing his horrid teeth, and then began to cough. He coughed once, then a second cough ricocheted into several more. At first no one seemed concerned, as they were used to his fits. But as he continued hacking without pause and tears popped from his eyes, the musicians ceased playing, and the priest looked alarmed.
“Are you all right, your Majesty?” the priest asked.
The old man, red-faced and wheezing silently, shook his head. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets as he clutched at his spasming chest. Morgana stared at him, horrified.
Suddenly, emitting a wet, rattling sound, Tormod toppled forward and straight into Morgana. Before she knew what was happening, she was on the floor, on her back, with the old king on top of her. His body began to spasm, so hard that it caused her to shake as well. The weight of his body and the heavy robes he wore made her unable to move. His crown had lodged against her neck, leaving a cut on her chin.
Then - suddenly, eerily - he was still.
Pinned beneath his body, his frozen face close to hers, all she should see was the upturned whites of his eyes, his blue tongue dangling out. His mouth was nearly on hers, his rotten and sour breath overwhelming her.
With all the air she had left in her lungs, Morgana screamed.
It took a moment for the people to realize what was happening, as there was initially a shocked silence. Then, cries of panic filled the chapel, and people ran about, calling for the physician. Morgana thought she heard someone nearby say it was ‘too late’. Was he dead? She couldn’t tell - in fact she could hardly breathe from where she was pinned beneath him. Feeling disoriented and a bit panicky, she screamed again, but it seemed as though she had been forgotten. Where was Gwen? Did no one realize she was here? Had the old thing actually died on top of her?
Then, thankfully, Kian was kneeling at her side. She had never been so glad to see anyone before in her life. “My Lady? Are you all right?” He reached out to rub her arm gently, and even though the gesture was highly inappropriate, she welcomed the comfort.
Wrenching one arm free, she reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “Get him off, Kian,” she begged, tears of sheer terror and disgust filling her eyes. “Please get him off of me.”
“I need some help!” Kian shouted, leaping to his feet, and then everyone finally seemed to realize the bride pinned beneath her collapsed fiancé. Renfrew and Bedwyr reappeared, and with Kian helped to roll the limp old man off of her. Free, but still traumatized, she cried out, trembling all over. Tears began to fall, but she didn’t know exactly why. She wasn’t sad, really, just shocked.
The court physician arrived, bag in hand, and he instantly began to check Tormod for signs of life. Dozens of people crowded around him, shouting prayers and wringing their hands, nearly trampling Morgana in the process.
Stumbling to her feet, she moved away from them and over to a nearby bench, where she sat and buried her face into her hands. Gwen appeared at her side, rubbing her shoulder. Kian turned to another servant behind him. “Fetch me some water.”
She clutched at the goblet and drank, gripping Kian’s wrist with her other hand. “Is he… is he…?” she dared to ask.
“I don’t know, my Lady,” he replied. “It doesn’t look good.”
The court physician was bent over Tormod as everyone waited in near-silence. He pressed his fingers to the king’s neck, then listened to his chest, and finally held a small mirror under the nose. Looking up, he shook his head, letting the citizens know what they feared was true.
“He’s gone,” he said simply. “God rest His Majesty’s soul.”
A female courtier released a shrill wail of grief, and pandemonium once again filled the church.
Morgana felt more relief than anything else, but also consequently felt guilt. How could she feel glad about another person dying? This was all happening so fast, so suddenly. But suddenly, her future had been handed back to her by the fates, and this time she was going to grasp it.
Merlin finally arrived, breathless and kneeling in front of her. “Can I get you anything, my Lady?”
“Arthur,” she whispered urgently in his ear. “Get Arthur.”
--
Chapter 11 here: http://a-boleyn1230.livejournal.com/139025.html