Fic: Wind and Running Water, Chapter 13
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13.
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“It seems we’re at her mercy, then,” said Vivian to Merlin that evening. “Unless…”
“What?”
“Maybe we couldn’t win in a direct fight, but if there were a distraction… You protect Excalibur with magic when Arthur doesn’t have it, don’t you?”
“Wherever you’re going with this-”
“Don’t you see, Merlin? If she knows it can kill her, she’ll be after it.”
He looked to her for further explanation.
“If she wants to live forever she’ll want to destroy it,” she explained. “If she doesn’t, she’ll want to use it.”
Merlin felt slightly sick. “In order to get it…”
“She’ll have to get through you or the King,” said Vivian. “I know you’re too humble to care much for your own life, but his?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“Are you willing to bet Arthur’s life on that?”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t. But you, or me, or anyone else in her way?”
Vivian shrugged. “We’re fair game.”
“I wouldn’t have put it like that.”
“It’s as well you’ve got me around, then. Putting things bluntly is one of my skills.”
“And your others?” asked Merlin cheekily.
“You’ll have to wait and see. But first, how’s about we take a closer peek at that sword?”
*
“How did you find me?” asked Morgana. Apart from her living so far from Camelot, there was nothing special about this patch of forest. It was also strange that Merlin should only have brought three knights with him. She cast her eyes about for others.
“Locator spells,” said Merlin.
“You say it so off-handedly.” Locator spells were difficult and unreliable at the best of times, but perhaps Merlin had mastered more magic than she had previously assumed. He had prevented her from observing the castle for a while, which was almost impressive, though it had not taken her very long to work around it.
“He only had to try three times,” said Gawain unhelpfully.
“Arthur’s not with you,” she said. “He’s afraid, isn’t he?”
“Arthur is the bravest man-” started Tristan.
“He’s a coward,” said Morgana. “He’s afraid of his feelings, afraid of being weak before me, as he knows he would be. How strange, to be afraid of one’s own cowardice.”
“He doesn’t know,” said Merlin.
“Doesn’t know?”
“That we wish to offer peace.”
She wondered if they had really thought she would believe that.
“By stabbing me in the back?” She did not bother even to turn, but the man who had been creeping up behind her with Excalibur was jerked upwards into the air and hung grotesquely as though hoisted by the nape of his neck.
“Tor, isn’t it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder briefly. “I knew your brother Percival.” She faced the others, who stood around her in a broad semicircle. “Twice, in fact. I’m sorry that Merlin included you in such a hopeless plan, Tor. He thinks I’m stupid, see, and I don’t know there are another two of you hiding over to my left. They don’t seem to realise that if they don’t come out then something very unfortunate will be happening to you very soon.”
Vivian and Bedevere crawled out sheepishly from the undergrowth.
“And he’s only armed you with a sword. A pretty little sword, but a sword nonetheless.” Morgana summoned Excalibur from Tor’s flailing hand behind her. “Do you know what this sword can do to me, Merlin?” She raised it and made a show of slicing her forearm open so that it bled profusely.
Merlin gave a gasp as within ten seconds the wound had closed up and healed completely. Morgana held her arm out for all to see and spoke in a harsh whisper.
“Nothing.”
Her eyes swivelled back to Sir Tor, who was hanging limply behind her; he had given up struggling.
“On a mere mortal, though - I’m sorry, Tor. It’s nothing personal.”
Having made sure she would never be so grossly underestimated again, she left them to gape or cry out in horror over Tor’s headless corpse.
*
Merlin had blundered so badly that he wondered whether Arthur would forgive him, but he did, him and Morgana both.
“It was self-defence,” said Arthur. “The same as with your attack, if I understand.”
“Yes,” said Merlin. He had explained Vivian’s reasoning but attributed it to himself.
“At least she didn’t take Excalibur,” said Arthur, then shook his head rapidly. “That’s a terrible thing to say, I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry; I went against your word.”
“We’ve been over this, Merlin. Next time at least tell me you think my word is wrong before… before doing something reckless.”
Merlin debated whether to tell Arthur that he was wrong about Morgana, that not even at a stretch was it self-defence when no-one could injure her. But there had been a lack of emotion, a brutality in Morgana’s eyes that had scared even Merlin.
He did not tell Arthur that he was wrong.
*
Vivian was annoyed: that Morgana was alive, that it was Tor who was dead and most of all that if only she had been carrying Excalibur then everything would have gone as she had planned.
“I should have wielded Excalibur,” she said to Merlin. “I told you so, and not just the once. But you wouldn’t even let me hold it.”
“I’m sorry. I was afraid for you.” He looked at her with such a sweet expression of concern she that she hardly felt she could complain without arousing his suspicions.
*
“What is it?” asked Arthur. His head hung apprehensively over Tarquin’s shoulder.
“That, my lord, is precisely what I’m in the process of determining.” His nose wrinkled and twitched as he examined the baby from different angles. “In the process,” he said, though his needless repetition was drowned out by Edith’s wails. It was surprising that her tiny lungs could produce such a piteous howl.
“Come on, Arthur.” There was a touch at his elbow and he allowed Guinevere to lead him out into the corridor. He wiped his brow, for he was too hot, and finding no relief pressed his cheek against the cool stone wall. Muffled cries carried through to rattle what composure he had.
“That nurse,” he said.
“Muriel?”
“Dismiss her.”
“What?”
He decided to abandon his comfort in favour of a more authoritative pose. He stood upright and threw his shoulders back.
“She was ill,” he said. “Three days, you told me, our daughter cried with sickness. Only now Muriel sends for the doctor.” His hands were clenched so tightly that his short nails dug sharply into his palms. “Find another nurse.”
“The nurse made no mistake,” said Guinevere. “I saw it myself; Edith barely seemed to have a cold at first.”
“And now?” Arthur was vaguely aware that he was raising his voice more than was necessary and that the servants would hear - Mabel, for example, doing her best to conceal herself behind an open door halfway down the corridor - but he could not bring himself to lower it. “What if three days was too long to be idle?”
Guinevere looked down to where she had wrapped her arms around her sides. “Then her fate is in God’s hands,” she said with a hint of resentment.
Arthur let out a loud noise of frustration and slammed his closed fist into the wall behind him, making her jump in a way that gave him some satisfaction. He marched past her and down the stairs, not bothering to check if his wife followed; she would think it just one of his tempers which flared easily but were equally easy to calm. But it was with unremitting ire that he strode outdoors, to the far end of the gardens, and called out in desperation to the warm and silent night.
*
Morgana had watched the occurrence in her new home of her own construction. It was only another cottage, unassuming from the outside, but she was proud of the interior and added more decoration when she was bored or felt the need.
The magic at her fingertips still blinded and stifled everything she felt, lying mostly undisturbed by any sensation which might have been more intensely enjoyable. Every day she seemed to feel less and less, but she felt something of Arthur’s hurt, so she supposed she should treasure that fact. She observed Arthur a good deal of the time since discovering the effect of his pain upon her.
Morgana did wonder why she had the connection to Arthur - their “entwined destinies” as the Great Dragon, or Lillian, would have had it? their previously strong friendship? mere chance? In any case, she suspected no one else could curb the dull intoxicated pleasure that came with her power.
She considered leaving Arthur alone, despite his utterance of her name, but his suffering would be so much more acute in person.
In fact, as his face came into focus she realised what she had missed. There was something wonderfully feral in the way his eyes fixed on her.
“You called?”
“Please, Morgana. You see these things. Tell me she lives.”
Morgana knew that Edith would live years longer than her current seven months, but she could always lie; spinning Arthur a tale of his daughter’s painful death would surely undo him most exquisitely…
“She lives.” She liked to think there were some depths she would not sink to.
Arthur relaxed somewhat. “Oh.” He exhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath all the while. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know why I’m doing you favours,” she muttered loudly enough for him to hear.
“You still care a little?” Arthur bit his lip and looked at Morgana with such obvious expectancy that she was almost startled. She returned to her cottage without giving him the gratification of an answer.
The encounter had given her the germ of an idea, which flourished from something minor and inchoate into a whole and satisfying proposal.
She would have sworn that when he looked at her, his lower lip caught between his teeth, she had seen more than a flash of lust in his eyes. However Arthur protested, she had always known him well. She knew his emotions, his reactions, his strengths and his weaknesses. She knew what made him worry or fume with anger.
She realised, with something almost akin to joy, that she knew exactly how to break his spirit.
*
Arthur could not believe that he had almost felt sorry for the bandits who were stupid enough to ambush the King, not to mention Merlin and Vivian, probably without even realising who they were. Now he was reconsidering - even as he had killed two of them and the others were fighting his friends out of sight, he had lost his sword and there was still one left. He found himself backing against a tree. He had no armour and no weapon.
The man lifted his sword and Arthur prayed.
Suddenly Morgana appeared in front of him and the blade slid into her with a sickening sound. She smiled at Arthur, ripped the sword easily from her flesh, and whirled round to slit the bandit’s throat.
Arthur gaped at her as she casually prodded the man with her foot and retrieved Excalibur with a flick of the wrist, stabbing the body for good measure and handing his sword back to him brightened with blood. Her eyes burned dark gold, distant and magnificent.
“I don’t think he’ll be troubling you again.”
He was about to respond when she took him by the arm and dragged him through thin air and nothingness back to the temple. Morgana confused him so - she understood him but mocked him, made him suffer but saved him.
“I needed to speak to you,” she said. “And don’t worry, Merlin and Vivian are fine too.” She peered down at the bloodstain on her dress and her hand hovered over it. It disappeared within seconds.
He looked at her with suspicion. He still gripped Excalibur in his hand and blood was dripping from the tip to pool on the ground.
She sighed. “You’re not upset because you were saved by a girl, are you?” It was a silly and childish thing to say, but Arthur suddenly saw the old Morgana again and everything seemed a little less desperate.
“Thank you,” he muttered.
“What was that, sorry?”
He glared at her, but didn’t mean it. “Thank you for not letting me die, whatever reasons you may have for it.”
“My reasons are much the same as before. I want us to reconcile. But I realise that last time I went about it the wrong way; I tried to be civil, and you’re not ready to be civil. You’re angry with me, whether you’ll admit it or not. You need to air your grievances. Let it all out.”
She conjured a sword and plucked it from mid-air where it hung before her. She considered for a moment and then produced a silver gauntlet, which she dropped casually at Arthur’s feet.
“Free combat. I promise I won’t use any magic.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Arthur.
“Deadly.” Her dark red lips curved upwards, her tongue caught between them as she grinned at him. “Just like old times, Arthur!”
He scoffed. “It’s hardly fair. You can’t feel pain.”
“You’re twice my size and not wearing a silly dress. I’d say we’re about evenly matched.”
“You can’t be injured.”
“Then you don’t have to hold back. I know you want to fight. Stop making excuses.” She circled him and he turned to follow her movement. “But that’s all you ever do, isn’t it? I know you hate me, now fight.”
“I don’t hate you.” She was only encouraging him to rage at his guilt - that was why they were here of all places, surely - and though she was the very embodiment of it, he was sure any attempt to rage against her would prove spectacularly ineffective.
“Loathe, despise, abhor…”
“No.” If there was any overwhelming emotion he felt towards her, not what she might represent, it was a strange sort of respect and envy. She was free. She had no kingdom, no inheritance, no husband to submit to, and all of her own doing. She had continually challenged his father; she surely felt that giddiness in open defiance that he did, though she did not dwell and brood and regret it afterwards. When Arthur had doubted his father, it was to Morgana he had turned automatically for instruction, to show him the way; she did not quaver in the face of authority. With this long overdue realisation came the first strains of anger and an accusation.
“You left Camelot. You left me.”
“And I didn’t look back.”
It was the expression of pity on Morgana’s face that prompted him to make a move. Why should she be so arrogant as to think he could not do without her? And why be so cruel as to leave him if she thought that was the case?
He made to attack and halfway through could not believe he was doing it, but by then Morgana had responded.
“Isn’t it good to be honest with yourself?” she asked as they danced to and fro across the floor, Arthur almost tripping over the gauntlet he had forgotten was there. “To admit that I frustrate you, that thoughts of me beset you. You can’t have me, you can’t break free and you certainly can’t defeat me.”
Morgana was swift in her movements and did not tire, speaking without any hint of exertion, but even as she matched his efforts there was a certain feeling of elation bubbling up in him. This he knew. She might have quick wits and the powers of magic and manipulation, but if he knew anything it was this: the clash of metal, the violent drumming of his heart against his ribs, the sting of drawn blood as her blade scratched a thin line on his arm.
“No rejoinder?” There was that goading, serpentine smile once more. “I thought you enjoyed our witty repartee. He has nothing to say for himself, then, our mighty King? No defence, though he longs for approval?”
Arthur was panting now and he felt sweat forming on his forehead. The day was hot and though he wasn’t wearing armour, combined with his previous exertions, it was enough that he felt some deal of exhaustion already. “I don’t need approval,” he said with difficulty. “The people love me.”
“Yes, they do, but they don’t know you.” Her bodice slipped slightly and Arthur was trapped between wondering at why her dress was so flimsy if she had planned this and appreciating that it was; but he could not bring himself to strike her in the moment she was distracted, though he could have done and she would not have been hurt.
Within a few seconds she continued and they fought as fiercely as before. “You don’t crave their love, nor Gwen’s. Forgiveness and love flow like blood through her veins; she could not loathe the Devil-” She was almost thrown off-balance by a blow she scarcely parried. “-if she tried. We both know what it is you crave.”
She swung her blade in a wide arc and as Arthur ducked it skimmed the wall behind him; the grating on his eardrums was enough to make him flinch and for a second the advantage was hers, but as she moved to strike him from the other side he caught her sword against his. With one flex he could have thrown her off but they stayed in balance, their swords locked and neither attempting to break free.
The beetle-black of her widened pupils transfixed him as the shining red mouth parted. He felt the puff of air against his own breathless lips.
“Are you afraid to take it?”
Their weapons clattered to the ground.
*
Guinevere prayed daily for strength and guidance. At first it had been a habit from childhood, but recently she had taken to it with renewed sincerity. She told herself she would be strong-willed and resolute and virtuous. No longer would she cry with shame or guilt, or not be able to look her husband in the eye for fear he might see the truth in her gaze. He would see that she was a better woman now than she had ever been.
She sank to her knees on the cold floor and closed her eyes.
Oh Lord, please forgive me my wrongdoings. Please help me to rise above these messy mortal pleasures…
A mile or so away, her husband was kissing Morgana passionately.
Morgana knew that Arthur had felt some lust for her, of course, but that was not why he had fallen for her taunts. The lust was for the twisted absolution he saw reflected in her every pale curve. She alone could forgive him, for no one else could ever find fault with him.
When she started to tug at his belt, Arthur pulled away slightly, backing up against the stone altar.
“I’m married,” he protested weakly, panting for breath.
She sidled up to him and played with the pendant around his neck. “Has anyone told your wife about that?”
“I can’t,” he mumbled as she licked at his throat. It was irritatingly clean.
She knew how to deal with that. She stopped, stepped away from him and shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. It was only… There are other men, I suppose.”
Arthur hesitated for a second before grabbing her again.
He lifted her onto the altar, pushed her thighs apart, and kissed her insistently. She ran her hands through his hair, petting him and smiling. Poor sweet Arthur, wretchedly predictable to the last.
…help me to accept your forgiveness and attain eternal life…
Morgana wrapped her legs around him and slid her hands over his back and shoulders, broad and strong as ever. She kissed him with desperation, empty and longing for some sensuous pleasure to overwhelm that clear, unsullied bliss that plagued her endlessly. Arthur pushed hard against her, making her drop her hands to grip the edges of the altar for support.
…help me to know the right path and to follow it always; help me to trust you and serve you; forgive me, Lord, and let my soul be with you…
Arthur was unrelenting, but more caring than she had expected. He murmured somewhere that she was beautiful and said her name over and over. Somewhere this had all become far too tender; she bit hard at his shoulder and dug her nails into his back, sure it must hurt, but he kept going - “Morgana… Morgana…”, wet tongued kisses, soft caresses all over - and she gave in.
…Amen
Arthur was still. He breathed heavily against Morgana’s cheek as she mouthed kisses along his jaw line. She pulled him flush against her, skin to skin - his tasted of heavy salt - and he mumbled drowsily that she was his. She was in no position to argue with that.
*
To Chapter 14