i did my best to notice when a call came down the line
“You cut your hair.”
Arthur sounds a little surprised by this. Gwen nods, slowly, performing a curtsy that she has not practiced in two years.
“It was more practical in the Cornwall countryside, Your Majesty,” she murmurs.
“Welcome home, Gwen,” he says.
“Thank you, sire.”
“Will you stop it with this sire-this, majesty-that nonsense?” Arthur sounds frustrated, but Gwen doesn’t lift her gaze from the stones under her shoes. She is still in the protracted curtsy-will be, until Arthur gives her permission to rise. She doesn’t think he’s noticed yet.
“With all due respect, probably not, sire.”
She has spent the past two years climbing towers and trekking miles for water-her calves don’t hurt yet, but they will, soon.
“You’ve changed.” Arthur sounds confused. “Both of you-you and Morgana.”
Gwen nods. She focuses on a bit of limestone and tries not to shift.
“Oh, for the sake of-Gwen, stop doing that.”
Morgana sweeps in, annoyed and drowning in silks and a sort of gauzy layer that makes her dress look like it is dotted with diamonds. At least, that is the attempt-Gwen would know, as she made the dress herself. “Stop being so insensible, Arthur.”
“What?! I didn’t do anything!”
“I’ll handle him, Gwen.” Morgana gives Gwen a bright smile, but Gwen has seen brighter, and she may not be gifted, but she knows what it means.
“Thank you, my lady,” she says, and leaves before her voice cracks. She thinks, as she bows away, that she might hate this Camelot a little bit more than the one she left.
~
I need you, the letter says. The school will have to close anyway-we always knew that, and the time to do it is now. Arthur needs all the help he can get at court, and he doesn’t seem to realize half the nobles are plotting against him. The western lands are at war again, and I need someone I can trust to help me here. Merlin is too busy trying to revoke as many magic laws as he can get his hands on; similarly, your restraint would be helpful in that quarter.
Gwen scans the rest of the letter, and down at the bottom, in a scribbled hand that it so unlike Morgana’s usual ladylike sprawl, is I miss you.
~
In the morning, when the horses for Morgana and her escort are readied, she is already gone. Gwen doesn’t get out of bed. She lies for a few moments, hearing only in her imagination the clatter of Morgana’s horse on the worn rocks of the courtyard, and then she climbs out of the bed that still has strands of Morgana’s hair across the pillow.
“Good morning,” she greets the girls, and doesn’t think about anything other than basic letters. “Here, like this,” she corrects Elaine, and forms her fingers around the stylus.
They will have to go back to their parents soon-the children that Gwen and Morgana gave a home, the girls who weren’t in a position to do anything other than marry and embroider. The girls that Morgana Saw were gifted, that Uther would have burned at the stake.
The threat is gone. Gwen should feel at least some lift-her girls, the students who have become her children, are safe now. But all Gwen feels is dread.
~
“Uther is dead,” Morgana tells Gwen at dinner.
Gwen nods, shorn hair brushing across her shoulder and hiding her expression. She has always been terrible at lying, and even through her hair Morgana knows that she is not surprised and wonders at the lack. “I always knew it would happen,” murmurs Gwen, pulling a piece of bread from her trencher. “One day. Was it murder?”
“Poison,” says Morgana, eyes glossy at the corners as she stares into her wine. “You know how it goes.”
“No,” says Gwen, but her voice is even and maybe a little amused. “I don’t, really.”
“Gwen-” begins Morgana, but she doesn’t know what to say (for once), and so she settles for falling silent, and letting the situation speak for itself. What it says, she isn’t sure, but moments later Gwen dusts bread crumbs off of her lap and stands.
“I’ll tell the stables you’ll need a horse for tomorrow,” she says. “Give my respects to Arthur, Morgana.”
She asks the obvious question anyway. “You won’t come?”
“It’s not my place, my lady,” says Gwen, and she curtsies-deeply, servant to sovereign-like she hasn’t since they left Camelot and Morgana told her, Never do that again. We are equals now, Gwen. Together.
Morgana is the second most powerful creature in the entirety of Albion, after Merlin, and she is unable to keep Gwen from walking away. It feels like the end-bittersweet, without anything of redeeming sweetness. She has gotten used to being unsurprised by life, and she has always seens Arthur’s summons in the back of her mind; saw them when she and Gwen escaped from the Camelot prisons, when Gwen said, There must be other girls like you, Morgana, that don’t know what to do, when she woke this morning to Gwen’s head against her shoulder.
You know what I need. Come back to Camelot, Morgana. Change is coming.
~
The letter comes one day in the spring-it is the sort of spring day that never happened in Camelot, with a fuzzy sun and rain drizzle so high that it vanishes by the time it reaches the ground, into a hazy mist that makes rainbows across the grass. Even though it must kill her, Gwen brings the piece of parchment to Morgana herself, still wearing a smock from her morning in the kitchen.
Gwen is curious and certainly has the right to question why a messenger would ride beyond exhaustion to deliver a letter (the seal is both familiar and unfamiliar, thick geometric walls crowding a center image), but she simply hands it to Morgana and turns on her heel; she has reading lessons in an hour with the younger girls.
Morgana closes her eyes for a moment and rests her lips against the paper, breathing in the scent of the messenger’s sweat and Gwen’s anxiety and the perfume of the wax that had been melted and poured two days previously.
When she finally works up the courage to open it, she already knows the message by heart.
Arthur sounds a little surprised by this. Gwen nods, slowly, performing a curtsy that she has not practiced in two years.
“It was more practical in the Cornwall countryside, Your Majesty,” she murmurs.
“Welcome home, Gwen,” he says.
“Thank you, sire.”
“Will you stop it with this sire-this, majesty-that nonsense?” Arthur sounds frustrated, but Gwen doesn’t lift her gaze from the stones under her shoes. She is still in the protracted curtsy-will be, until Arthur gives her permission to rise. She doesn’t think he’s noticed yet.
“With all due respect, probably not, sire.”
She has spent the past two years climbing towers and trekking miles for water-her calves don’t hurt yet, but they will, soon.
“You’ve changed.” Arthur sounds confused. “Both of you-you and Morgana.”
Gwen nods. She focuses on a bit of limestone and tries not to shift.
“Oh, for the sake of-Gwen, stop doing that.”
Morgana sweeps in, annoyed and drowning in silks and a sort of gauzy layer that makes her dress look like it is dotted with diamonds. At least, that is the attempt-Gwen would know, as she made the dress herself. “Stop being so insensible, Arthur.”
“What?! I didn’t do anything!”
“I’ll handle him, Gwen.” Morgana gives Gwen a bright smile, but Gwen has seen brighter, and she may not be gifted, but she knows what it means.
“Thank you, my lady,” she says, and leaves before her voice cracks. She thinks, as she bows away, that she might hate this Camelot a little bit more than the one she left.
~
I need you, the letter says. The school will have to close anyway-we always knew that, and the time to do it is now. Arthur needs all the help he can get at court, and he doesn’t seem to realize half the nobles are plotting against him. The western lands are at war again, and I need someone I can trust to help me here. Merlin is too busy trying to revoke as many magic laws as he can get his hands on; similarly, your restraint would be helpful in that quarter.
Gwen scans the rest of the letter, and down at the bottom, in a scribbled hand that it so unlike Morgana’s usual ladylike sprawl, is I miss you.
~
In the morning, when the horses for Morgana and her escort are readied, she is already gone. Gwen doesn’t get out of bed. She lies for a few moments, hearing only in her imagination the clatter of Morgana’s horse on the worn rocks of the courtyard, and then she climbs out of the bed that still has strands of Morgana’s hair across the pillow.
“Good morning,” she greets the girls, and doesn’t think about anything other than basic letters. “Here, like this,” she corrects Elaine, and forms her fingers around the stylus.
They will have to go back to their parents soon-the children that Gwen and Morgana gave a home, the girls who weren’t in a position to do anything other than marry and embroider. The girls that Morgana Saw were gifted, that Uther would have burned at the stake.
The threat is gone. Gwen should feel at least some lift-her girls, the students who have become her children, are safe now. But all Gwen feels is dread.
~
“Uther is dead,” Morgana tells Gwen at dinner.
Gwen nods, shorn hair brushing across her shoulder and hiding her expression. She has always been terrible at lying, and even through her hair Morgana knows that she is not surprised and wonders at the lack. “I always knew it would happen,” murmurs Gwen, pulling a piece of bread from her trencher. “One day. Was it murder?”
“Poison,” says Morgana, eyes glossy at the corners as she stares into her wine. “You know how it goes.”
“No,” says Gwen, but her voice is even and maybe a little amused. “I don’t, really.”
“Gwen-” begins Morgana, but she doesn’t know what to say (for once), and so she settles for falling silent, and letting the situation speak for itself. What it says, she isn’t sure, but moments later Gwen dusts bread crumbs off of her lap and stands.
“I’ll tell the stables you’ll need a horse for tomorrow,” she says. “Give my respects to Arthur, Morgana.”
She asks the obvious question anyway. “You won’t come?”
“It’s not my place, my lady,” says Gwen, and she curtsies-deeply, servant to sovereign-like she hasn’t since they left Camelot and Morgana told her, Never do that again. We are equals now, Gwen. Together.
Morgana is the second most powerful creature in the entirety of Albion, after Merlin, and she is unable to keep Gwen from walking away. It feels like the end-bittersweet, without anything of redeeming sweetness. She has gotten used to being unsurprised by life, and she has always seens Arthur’s summons in the back of her mind; saw them when she and Gwen escaped from the Camelot prisons, when Gwen said, There must be other girls like you, Morgana, that don’t know what to do, when she woke this morning to Gwen’s head against her shoulder.
You know what I need. Come back to Camelot, Morgana. Change is coming.
~
The letter comes one day in the spring-it is the sort of spring day that never happened in Camelot, with a fuzzy sun and rain drizzle so high that it vanishes by the time it reaches the ground, into a hazy mist that makes rainbows across the grass. Even though it must kill her, Gwen brings the piece of parchment to Morgana herself, still wearing a smock from her morning in the kitchen.
Gwen is curious and certainly has the right to question why a messenger would ride beyond exhaustion to deliver a letter (the seal is both familiar and unfamiliar, thick geometric walls crowding a center image), but she simply hands it to Morgana and turns on her heel; she has reading lessons in an hour with the younger girls.
Morgana closes her eyes for a moment and rests her lips against the paper, breathing in the scent of the messenger’s sweat and Gwen’s anxiety and the perfume of the wax that had been melted and poured two days previously.
When she finally works up the courage to open it, she already knows the message by heart.