fic: in morpheus's keep
title: in morpheus's keep
words: 1300
pairings: morgana/gwen, morgana/arthur, morgana/mordred, gwen/arthur
warnings: violence, gore, incest
notes: mesh of legend and show
ROMEO
I dream'd a dream to-night.
MERCUTIO
And so did I.
ROMEO
Well, what was yours?
MERCUTIO
That dreamers often lie.
ROMEO
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
She is small, and she dreams of home. Cliffs by the sea, the taste of salt on her lips, a soft lullabye too faint to make out. The sea roaring against the rocks, unrelenting in its wrath. Shells cutting at her feet, the shrieks of the sea birds, forever crying into the wind. The shine of her father’s mail, their banner fluttering like a bird taking flight.
“Sh.” the nursemaid says. “Sh, you’re here now. The king has been so kind to you.”
The king has given her blue silk dresses and a tiara carved from mother of pearl. He has taken her old wetnurse, her father and her castle. She is too young to understand the idea of exchange but she is old enough to feel cheated.
She will never see the sea again in this life.
-
Her mother is tired eyes and red hair. She touches Morgana’s brow gently, but her fingers burn fever-hot against Morgana’s skin and her eyes are bright with delirium.
“She gave him only one child,” Her mother murmurs. “And a daughter, at that. That’s what they’ll say when I’m in the ground.”
She grabs at Morgana’s shoulders and Morgana cries out, small fingers clutching at her mother’s gown.
“Listen to me.” Her mother hisses. Her hand darts up to grab Morgana’s face, fingernails digging into. Morgana howls but her mother doesn’t hear.
“Listen to me.” She says. “You can give or you can take, but you can’t do both, and you can see where giving’s gotten me.”
Morgana is wide-eyed and still. Her mother shudders and her eyes roll back and her hand falls away. The healers are shouting and the nursemaid grabs Morgana by the waist. She screams and reaches out, but her mother isn’t looking any more.
-
In a meadow full of wildflowers, under the noon day sun, Morgana kisses Gwen once, quickly, chastely.
Gwen laughs and continues braiding yellow flowers into Morgana’s hair.
“You’ll stay with me forever, Gwen.” It’s a command, because Gwen smells like lavender and soap and Morgana can count all the freckles on her nose. Gwen is a rock, a star, a candle, and Gwen is the only one who was hers.
“You look like a queen.” Gwen says, and somewhere in the blue of the sky Morgana glimpses it, a crown, a throne, a marriage bed, her future shining down bright and hot on her face.
-
In a meadow full of wildflowers, Morgana kisses Gwen once.
“Don’t.” Gwen says, and pulls away.
-
At a feast with wine on her tongue and cloves in her hair, Morgana shares a goblet with Arthur. He cuts her meat and feeds her plums one by one, and she licks the sticky sweet juice from his fingers.
-
At a feast with wine on her tongue and cloves in her hair, Morgana watches Gwen pour Arthur his mead. He grazes her wrist with his fingertips ever so slightly, and Morgana looks away. She will not be the first queen to ignore her king’s dalliances, she tells herself.
Years later, she will think how foolish it was that she’d ever bothered hope at all.
-
She awakens screaming. Gwen rushes to her side.
“Hush, love.”’ Gwen says, brushing her hair back from her face, pressing cool kisses to her fevered cheeks. “Hush, I’m here.”
-
She awakens screaming. No one comes.
-
She is tied to a pyre. Her mouth tastes of smoke and ash and her lungs burn. She wants to scream but the gag in her mouth prevents it. Above her smoke is spiraling up in elegant plumes like water freed from gravity.
The rope cuts into her wrists and ankles and struggling rubs them raw. High above stands Uther. He is as still as a statue, as a shadow.
She can feel the heat on the soles of her feet, first warm like a caress and then warmer until it burns. She’s writhing against the ropes, pitiful muffled noises coming from around the gag, and then there’s nothing but pain any more, nothing but pain and on the balcony beside his father Arthur’s face is cold and empty.
-
Gwen is tied to a pyre. Tears clean soot off her face as they track down her cheeks.
“Whore.” Arthur spits from somewhere far above, tall and dark and hotter than the flames.
-
“She’s my friend.” Morgana says, and in her arms Gwen smells like fresh laundry and home.
-
“I’d rather drown in my own blood.” She shrieks, and she can feel the dark within her twist and coil and smile.
-
She is on a throne, her grin gleaming and proud. Arthur is beside her, and Gwen behind them. Below them all of Camelot cheers.
-
Gwen is on a throne, her smile as bright as her crown. Arthur is beside her, and Merlin behind them. Below them all of Camelot cheers.
Morgana’s chambers are empty. Dust settles on her jewels, her gowns, her bed. Nobody has entered in years.
-
In a room with sunlight dappling the floor and a kingdom holding its breath, Arthur touches her cheek with reverence as he places the crown upon her head.
“My queen.” He says, love in his eyes, and the crowd cheers.
-
In a room that smelled of smoke where a kingdom waited, a trembling man places a crown on her head, hatred on his face.
“My queen.” Morgause says, and the room is silent and cold.
-
She is holding a dark-haired babe at her breast. The midwife is smiling down at both of them.
“My love.” Arthur says, and he kisses her slowly, softly, twining his hand in her hair.
-
She is holding a dark-haired babe at her breast.
The forest is dim and empty. The newborn wails and the noise is muted by the trees.
“My son.” she says. She kisses his brow and her own blood smears across her mouth.
-
She is holding a dark-haired man at her breast.
“I will avenge you, I swear it.” Mordred says.
“My king.” She whispers, and she places a finger to his lips.
-
Camelot glitters and the spires sparkle.
“An heir.” Arthur is saying. “The queen is with child.”
Beneath Morgana’s hand on her belly, the child begins to kick.
-
Camelot burns and the spires crumble. Soon there is nothing left but ash and embers and the crows pecking out the eyes of the dead.
There are two corpses left untouched. Morgana stands between them and waits.
-
“Fetch me the golden collar.” Morgana says. “The coronation gift from the southern lords. the one with the ruby crest.”
Gwen is staring at her, and Morgana catches sight of herself in the mirror- fifteen years old and gangly limbs and a snarl of hair, not a queen, barely a maiden.
“I forgot again.” Morgana says, her voice small and tremulous. Gwen takes her by the elbow and guides her to the bed.
“Just dreams, my lady.” Gwen says gently, cupping her cheek. “They won’t harm you.”
Morgana blinks, and Gwen is in a crown, Gwen is smiling down at a sea of people, Gwen is gasping under Arthur, under Lancelot, Gwen is in a nun’s habit, alone and cold.
Morgana closes her eyes.
“Tell Arthur I shan’t be attending this feast.” She says at last. Gwen gets up, and Morgana catches her wrist.
“And then come back, Gwen.” She says. “Please don’t let me sleep.”
-
His body is stiff and cold in her arms, tacky blood sticking her robes to his skin. His wide blue eyes are empty, little mirrors of the sky. She has no tears. She thinks perhaps grief fled her long ago, drifted back to the ocean where it could rest in the cool darkness.
The boat rocks back and forth, back and forth. The sea stretches out around them, vast and deep, and she clutches his still form closer and hums a song that Gwen used to sing.