Kink Me! #2
Kink Me! #2 Closed to new prompts Welcome to Kink Me! Merlin #2!
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Gwen looks from one of them to the other and says, “I’ll just go and, um, do that…thing.” Morgana wonders what her face looks like, what Gwen sees that sends her off so quickly.
“The dreams aren’t back, are they?” Merlin asks, and she starts guiltily before she realizes Merlin means the other dreams, the real ones, that between the two of them they figured out how to suppress once they became too indistinct and vague, in the war-torn now, to be more useful than horrifying.
“No. No, nothing like that. It’s-” She hesitates, not sure how to say it. “Well, yes, actually.” It’s only a small lie, after all, and this way he’ll listen. “Not the kind I used to have. They’re more controlled, quieter. I can sleep through them.”
Merlin looks expectantly at her. There’s confidence beneath his worry-he thinks they can fix it, whatever it is, the way he saved Arthur from Sophia, the way they solved all the other things she’d told him about.
“Gwen’s going to betray Arthur,” Morgana whispers, and Merlin’s face goes blank, then incredulous.
“That’s completely ridiculous,” he says, looking at her like she’s said Uther was going to allow magic again, like she’s gone completely mad.
“I mean, she’s going to fall in love,” says Morgana.
Merlin’s expression doesn’t change. “Gwen doesn’t know how to betray anyone.” He says it like he’d say water runs downhill, and it’s true, she knows it’s true because if anyone raised in Uther’s Camelot is pure and good and true it’s Gwen, but...
“I don’t think she can help it,” Morgana says, and thinks of the rich deep red of roses in Lancelot’s hands, the sunlight off his sword. “I think it hurts her more than she can bear, but there’s nothing she can do that will make it better, so it tears her in half and poisons Arthur and-the other.” Somehow she’s reluctant to tell Merlin who the other is. “It ruins everything. I think there are people who will hate her for it, or blame her for everything that happens, but Merlin”-she’s gripping his arm, desperate to make him see-“it isn’t her fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault, it’s just horrible, and it needs to be stopped.”
“So if someone shows up in love with Gwen we’ll find him a nice lady in a country castle somewhere far away instead,” Merlin says. He’s laughing at her, she can see it in his eyes.
Morgana shakes her head. “Instead of Gwen? Would you marry a nice lady in a country castle with no conversation who does nothing but her weaving and embroidery, and maybe tends an herb garden for tonics, and thinks nothing and does nothing and doesn’t care for anyone?”
But the suggestion lingers, as absurd as it is, and Merlin’s utter rejection of her fears lingers as well. That night she doesn’t say the spells that keep the nightmares from her. She’s sure she’ll wake screaming, smelling smoke or blood or despair too vague to help anyone, and Gwen has her own chambers and her own lady’s maid now, and Hilda is nowhere near as comforting as Gwen. But-if she lets the real dreams in, maybe she’ll be able to help. Maybe she can even convince Merlin to help.
She has a restless night, half-waking over and over again out of reluctance to know for sure. It’s in the soft, cold stillness of the deepest part of the night, not long before dawn, that the vision finally comes, sinking through her dreams like a stone thrown into a lake. There is Lancelot, and hands too pale to be Gwen’s unfastening his shirt, lingering tenderly on his skin; then there’s one lightning-sharp flash of them tangled together in bed with her legs wrapped around him, her head arched back, and Morgana recognizes the woman’s face as her own.
The shock of it wakes her, gasping silently, before she can see any more. Hilda is still sleeping on her cot, breathing deep and even, and Morgana sits up, curls up against her pillows with her arms wrapped around her knees, and thinks. If Lancelot bedded her, an unwed lady of royal birth, he would be compelled to offer her marriage by his own honor, even if nobody else knew of it. If he had his own vows to think of as well as Gwen’s, the two of them might never slide into their disastrous passion. If, if, if.
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