merlin fic: there will be teeth in the grass [morgause/cenred, t]
there will be teeth in the grass. merlin, t, 1564 words.
"It will be worth it in the end," Morgause says.
"Let us hope," Cenred says.
Morgause is freezing cold and road-weary from four days on horseback when she finally catches up with Cenred and his men. They are busy putting paid to a search party from Camelot strayed too far over Cenred's borders; Morgause moves to dismount, dust-lined cloak swinging around her, and then stops, still half in the saddle, as he calls, "My Lady Morgause!"
He comes over to her, stepping past the slain, holding out one hand to help her down. She does not remotely need help, but it is wise, she thinks, to let him do it anyway.
"Uther's getting worried, isn't he?" Morgause says, stretching out her stiff back after landing on the ground with a thump. Her boots are already sinking into the wet marshy grass.
"So it would seem," Cenred says. "Did you have a pleasant journey, my lady?"
He eyes one last still-living red-cloaked knight with fond exasperation as he speaks; bloodied and bruised, the man is trying to pull himself to his knees, fumbling around in the grass for his sword. Cenred twirls his sword experimentally, tilting his head as if searching for the best angle, and then neatly skewers the knight through the chest.
"As pleasant as can be expected for four days of hard riding, yes," Morgause says, patting her horse's neck, watching as Cenred begins to drag his sword out of the knight's body. It catches on ribs; he frowns and braces his foot against the corpse's side and wrenches it out all the way with a sickening crack.
"And we are so very grateful for your presence here," Cenred says, bending to wipe his sword clean on the limp scarlet cloak before sheathing it again. "You must be exhausted."
"Not at all," Morgause lies.
"Drag him over there with the rest of them," he directs one of his men; the soldier nearest sighs and starts dragging the corpse by the feet over to the steadily rising pile of dead bodies to be put to the torch. Cenred turns back to Morgause and says, "Come. A hot meal won't go amiss, I think?"
Morgause mounts again, this time moving more slowly. She truly will be glad to have a night of rest, she thinks, but out of the corner of her eye Morgause can see Cenred's men watching her suspiciously. They don't trust her; good, she thinks. She knows they still call her 'witch' and worse behind her back, but Cenred, infinitely practical man that he is, doesn't concern himself with her talent so long as it can be put to his use. Weighing Uther Pendragon's potential reaction in a similar situation, she thinks it's fair to say that Cenred comes out his superior, and that is frankly good enough for her purposes.
The wind rises and tangles Morgause's hair in her eyes and mouth. She pulls it free and sees that Cenred is looking at her.
"What?" she says.
"Nothing," he says. "Only you look terribly wicked in that armour."
"I do not wear it for your amusement, Cenred," she says.
"Ah, but I will take my pleasures where I can," he says. She looks away and he laughs, horse sidling, coming so close to her that his knee bumps into hers.
"Can she do it?"
Morgause, toweling her hair dry by the hearth and busy checking that it doesn't still smell of smoke and burnt flush, looks up at Cenred.
"Yes, of course," she says quickly, but perhaps she speaks up too soon; his dark eyes glitter in the firelight as he leans back in his chair, cradling his goblet of wine.
"You're not certain of it," Cenred says. He drinks deeply, eyes still fixed on her over the lip of his cup.
"Of course I am," Morgause snaps. "No one feels more strongly about this than she does. She will not waver for a second."
"But she will," Cenred says. He rubs his ringed fingers across his lips and then curls them back around the base of his goblet where it rests on the arm of his chair. He watches as her borrowed robe slips low off her shoulder, and she doesn't bother to pull it back up. He lifts his eyes back to her face with obvious effort and continues, "She lived as daughter to the man for half her life. The conditions, you must admit, are rather less than ideal."
"It won't be a problem," Morgause says. To her ears it sounds more like she's trying to convince herself; she wonders if Cenred can hear it.
"Well," Cenred says, tipping the last of his wine into the fire with a hissing crackle, "that will just have to be something we agree to disagree on for now."
Morgause's mouth quirks. "You don't want to continue the argument now?" she says, getting to her feet and coming around to his chair. "Because I assure you, I could keep going."
"I am more than certain you could," Cenred says. Morgause bends and drapes herself around his shoulders; he twists to peer into her face and adds with a petulant sigh, "But I find I am weary after the day's exertions, and I have no desire to fight with you of all people."
"So sweet," she says. Her robe slips still further down her arms. She runs a hand through Cenred's hair idly, looking past him to the table full of maps he keeps at his side. She hadn't been able to get a good angle on them all evening, but now she sees that they are sketched floorplans of Camelot, clearly done from memory and also clearly incomplete; she flicks her eyes back to his face and teases, "You know you'd lose, that's all."
"Oh, always," he says, and he leans in to kiss her.
Morgause wakes at the first grey light of dawn. She sits up in Cenred's great bed, looking towards the windows where the hangings flutter in the wind; another bleak day, then, one she does not much look forward to riding through.
"Morning," Cenred says from across the room.
He is sitting by the still-smouldering fire poring over the maps she had seen laid out the night before. She smiles at him, all the while cursing herself inwardly for letting herself sleep on past him. She thinks she can trust him not to put a knife in her back as she sleeps - but she does not know that for certain.
She will not leave herself so vulnerable again.
"Is it already?" Morgause says. She drags the furs off the bed and pulls them around herself, padding barefooted across the stone flags to Cenred. She leans over him, pushing the maps away across the table. "And I must leave."
"So soon?" Cenred says. His hand finds her bare hip under the furs, but she is decidedly not in the mood; her eyes blaze hot and he snatches his hand away like it's been burnt as she pulls away from him and stands up straight.
"I have more demands on my time," Morgause says, temper rising, "than you seem to realise, Cenred. I cannot constantly be coming here to sooth your fears about this scheme. Are you with me or are you not?"
Cenred is eyeing his blistering red fingertips. "You know I am," he says shortly. He does not look pleased, and Morgause, hating that she still must play nicely with him and knowing that she cannot let his allegiance waver for a second, makes herself smile at him.
"Then we have nothing to worry about," she says. She raises his hand to her lips and kisses his fingers; they are left looking white and new. "And now, I must be on my way."
Cenred watches as Morgause fishes her shirt out from under one of the chairs and pulls it over her head and begins to gather her clothes and armour from where they've been abandoned around the room.
"Missing this?" he says after a moment; she looks up at him, balancing herself against the bed as she shoves her feet into her boots, and he holds up her chain mail, links clicking metallically together. He pauses and says, "When shall we meet again?"
"Give us a month," Morgause says, rolling down her sleeves, "and then meet me at the border with your men."
"Arms," Cenred says. She arches an eyebrow at him, spirit automatically bucking at being given orders, but raises her arms anyway. He lifts her mail up over her head and settles it onto her shoulders; her mouth goes into a thin line at the pinching heavy weight of it, but she just shrugs her shoulders to make it lay more evenly before standing and reaching for the rest of her armour. Cenred pulls her hair away from her back to keep it from catching on the metal and then helps her buckle the plates into place.
"A month," Morgause repeats when she's fully dressed, pulling on her gauntlets last of all.
Cenred inclines his head. "My lady," he says. He fastens her cloak at her throat and then hooks a finger in the knot to draw her close, bending to kiss her just once, brief and hard.
"And don't forget it," she adds fiercely.
"Go," he says. "You've a long ride ahead of you."
"But it will be worth it in the end," Morgause says.
"Let us hope," Cenred says.
His eyes are wary as he watches her go.
"It will be worth it in the end," Morgause says.
"Let us hope," Cenred says.
Morgause is freezing cold and road-weary from four days on horseback when she finally catches up with Cenred and his men. They are busy putting paid to a search party from Camelot strayed too far over Cenred's borders; Morgause moves to dismount, dust-lined cloak swinging around her, and then stops, still half in the saddle, as he calls, "My Lady Morgause!"
He comes over to her, stepping past the slain, holding out one hand to help her down. She does not remotely need help, but it is wise, she thinks, to let him do it anyway.
"Uther's getting worried, isn't he?" Morgause says, stretching out her stiff back after landing on the ground with a thump. Her boots are already sinking into the wet marshy grass.
"So it would seem," Cenred says. "Did you have a pleasant journey, my lady?"
He eyes one last still-living red-cloaked knight with fond exasperation as he speaks; bloodied and bruised, the man is trying to pull himself to his knees, fumbling around in the grass for his sword. Cenred twirls his sword experimentally, tilting his head as if searching for the best angle, and then neatly skewers the knight through the chest.
"As pleasant as can be expected for four days of hard riding, yes," Morgause says, patting her horse's neck, watching as Cenred begins to drag his sword out of the knight's body. It catches on ribs; he frowns and braces his foot against the corpse's side and wrenches it out all the way with a sickening crack.
"And we are so very grateful for your presence here," Cenred says, bending to wipe his sword clean on the limp scarlet cloak before sheathing it again. "You must be exhausted."
"Not at all," Morgause lies.
"Drag him over there with the rest of them," he directs one of his men; the soldier nearest sighs and starts dragging the corpse by the feet over to the steadily rising pile of dead bodies to be put to the torch. Cenred turns back to Morgause and says, "Come. A hot meal won't go amiss, I think?"
Morgause mounts again, this time moving more slowly. She truly will be glad to have a night of rest, she thinks, but out of the corner of her eye Morgause can see Cenred's men watching her suspiciously. They don't trust her; good, she thinks. She knows they still call her 'witch' and worse behind her back, but Cenred, infinitely practical man that he is, doesn't concern himself with her talent so long as it can be put to his use. Weighing Uther Pendragon's potential reaction in a similar situation, she thinks it's fair to say that Cenred comes out his superior, and that is frankly good enough for her purposes.
The wind rises and tangles Morgause's hair in her eyes and mouth. She pulls it free and sees that Cenred is looking at her.
"What?" she says.
"Nothing," he says. "Only you look terribly wicked in that armour."
"I do not wear it for your amusement, Cenred," she says.
"Ah, but I will take my pleasures where I can," he says. She looks away and he laughs, horse sidling, coming so close to her that his knee bumps into hers.
"Can she do it?"
Morgause, toweling her hair dry by the hearth and busy checking that it doesn't still smell of smoke and burnt flush, looks up at Cenred.
"Yes, of course," she says quickly, but perhaps she speaks up too soon; his dark eyes glitter in the firelight as he leans back in his chair, cradling his goblet of wine.
"You're not certain of it," Cenred says. He drinks deeply, eyes still fixed on her over the lip of his cup.
"Of course I am," Morgause snaps. "No one feels more strongly about this than she does. She will not waver for a second."
"But she will," Cenred says. He rubs his ringed fingers across his lips and then curls them back around the base of his goblet where it rests on the arm of his chair. He watches as her borrowed robe slips low off her shoulder, and she doesn't bother to pull it back up. He lifts his eyes back to her face with obvious effort and continues, "She lived as daughter to the man for half her life. The conditions, you must admit, are rather less than ideal."
"It won't be a problem," Morgause says. To her ears it sounds more like she's trying to convince herself; she wonders if Cenred can hear it.
"Well," Cenred says, tipping the last of his wine into the fire with a hissing crackle, "that will just have to be something we agree to disagree on for now."
Morgause's mouth quirks. "You don't want to continue the argument now?" she says, getting to her feet and coming around to his chair. "Because I assure you, I could keep going."
"I am more than certain you could," Cenred says. Morgause bends and drapes herself around his shoulders; he twists to peer into her face and adds with a petulant sigh, "But I find I am weary after the day's exertions, and I have no desire to fight with you of all people."
"So sweet," she says. Her robe slips still further down her arms. She runs a hand through Cenred's hair idly, looking past him to the table full of maps he keeps at his side. She hadn't been able to get a good angle on them all evening, but now she sees that they are sketched floorplans of Camelot, clearly done from memory and also clearly incomplete; she flicks her eyes back to his face and teases, "You know you'd lose, that's all."
"Oh, always," he says, and he leans in to kiss her.
Morgause wakes at the first grey light of dawn. She sits up in Cenred's great bed, looking towards the windows where the hangings flutter in the wind; another bleak day, then, one she does not much look forward to riding through.
"Morning," Cenred says from across the room.
He is sitting by the still-smouldering fire poring over the maps she had seen laid out the night before. She smiles at him, all the while cursing herself inwardly for letting herself sleep on past him. She thinks she can trust him not to put a knife in her back as she sleeps - but she does not know that for certain.
She will not leave herself so vulnerable again.
"Is it already?" Morgause says. She drags the furs off the bed and pulls them around herself, padding barefooted across the stone flags to Cenred. She leans over him, pushing the maps away across the table. "And I must leave."
"So soon?" Cenred says. His hand finds her bare hip under the furs, but she is decidedly not in the mood; her eyes blaze hot and he snatches his hand away like it's been burnt as she pulls away from him and stands up straight.
"I have more demands on my time," Morgause says, temper rising, "than you seem to realise, Cenred. I cannot constantly be coming here to sooth your fears about this scheme. Are you with me or are you not?"
Cenred is eyeing his blistering red fingertips. "You know I am," he says shortly. He does not look pleased, and Morgause, hating that she still must play nicely with him and knowing that she cannot let his allegiance waver for a second, makes herself smile at him.
"Then we have nothing to worry about," she says. She raises his hand to her lips and kisses his fingers; they are left looking white and new. "And now, I must be on my way."
Cenred watches as Morgause fishes her shirt out from under one of the chairs and pulls it over her head and begins to gather her clothes and armour from where they've been abandoned around the room.
"Missing this?" he says after a moment; she looks up at him, balancing herself against the bed as she shoves her feet into her boots, and he holds up her chain mail, links clicking metallically together. He pauses and says, "When shall we meet again?"
"Give us a month," Morgause says, rolling down her sleeves, "and then meet me at the border with your men."
"Arms," Cenred says. She arches an eyebrow at him, spirit automatically bucking at being given orders, but raises her arms anyway. He lifts her mail up over her head and settles it onto her shoulders; her mouth goes into a thin line at the pinching heavy weight of it, but she just shrugs her shoulders to make it lay more evenly before standing and reaching for the rest of her armour. Cenred pulls her hair away from her back to keep it from catching on the metal and then helps her buckle the plates into place.
"A month," Morgause repeats when she's fully dressed, pulling on her gauntlets last of all.
Cenred inclines his head. "My lady," he says. He fastens her cloak at her throat and then hooks a finger in the knot to draw her close, bending to kiss her just once, brief and hard.
"And don't forget it," she adds fiercely.
"Go," he says. "You've a long ride ahead of you."
"But it will be worth it in the end," Morgause says.
"Let us hope," Cenred says.
His eyes are wary as he watches her go.