arthurian lit ficlet: my blood is singing with your voice [arthur and morgana, pg]
my blood is singing with your voice. arthurian lit, pg, 678 words.
"Blood calls to blood, brother," she says. "In more ways than one."
They have been two months on the march when Arthur first dreams of her.
He has been lying awake all night, bone-tired but unable to rest, flexing and relaxing his right hand; he took a bad slice off a mercenary's blade two weeks back and it hasn't been healing right, though he would never admit it out loud. He stares at the ceiling of the tent and tries to make out patterns in the weaving to lull himself to sleep. Perhaps it even works, because what he sees next is a shock: Morgana, sitting by a fire on some windswept plain under the night sky. He cannot see her face but he knows it is her all the same - his soul could not mistake the fall of that black hair or the curve of her back or the twist of her booted ankle. She is pulling weeds apart in her hands distractedly, tossing them into the flames. Anxious, or perhaps just cross.
He tries to talk but cannot. Morgana turns all the same, her mouth opening round in surprise or perhaps to speak, but Arthur is already waking; the next time he blinks he is left staring at the ceiling of his tent once more, heart thundering in his chest.
He does not sleep for the rest of the night.
The next time he dreams of her he recognises where they are: Tintagel, his babyhood home and the castle where she grew up. She is sitting on the rocks overlooking the crashing sea, her dress and cloak tucked in around her feet against the wind.
This time he finds he can talk.
"Are you doing this?"
Morgana hooks her hair behind her ear; the wind snatches it away again immediately. "What do you think?" she says, smiling, lips red against her teeth.
"I thought you were dead," he says, settling onto the rocks beside her.
"No, you didn't," she says, and he nods: fair enough.
She laughs, leans forward to touch his wrist. "You've missed me, Arthur Pendragon," she says. "Admit it."
"Will you not leave me be?" he says wretchedly, but his words are taken away on the wind, and he is still talking when he opens his eyes and realises with a jolt that he is back in his bed at Camelot.
He sits up and buries his face in his hands.
Guinevere stirs beside him.
"Arthur?" she says, pushing herself up on one hand. Her curling hair brushes against his shoulder as she touches his chest worriedly, and he flinches away from her hand, remembering Morgana's fingertips skimming across his bare skin -
"It's nothing," he says, thinking he might be sick. "Go back to sleep."
He is expecting her the third time.
They are in a ring of standing stones Arthur dimly remembers from his youth, the grey sky touched with pre-dawn light at the far horizon.
"Do you recognise this place?" Morgana is wearing a white cloak, a crown of flowers he cannot name tangled in her curls.
He frowns, trying to remember, smoothing his palm across the top of the waist-high rock they called the altar stone - though what its true purpose was has long since passed out of living memory.
"Yes," he says slowly. His palm stings red-hot, and he snatches his hand away from the stone, thinking he snagged it on something, but Morgana's gaze is fixed on his expectantly.
He remembers: pulling out his knife, slicing open his palm and hers, clasping their hands together and swearing, voices hitching with sorrow and dread -
What was it that he swore to her?
"Blood calls to blood, brother," she says. "In more ways than one."
He stares.
"What do you mean, sister?"
She smiles and he sees that blood is running down her fingers anew, staining the hem of snowy cloak. "You'll see soon enough," she says.
He opens his clenched fist and sees the scarlet cut he knew would be there.
I am coming for you, brother, is her ghostly whisper left ringing in his ears as he wakes once more.
"Blood calls to blood, brother," she says. "In more ways than one."
They have been two months on the march when Arthur first dreams of her.
He has been lying awake all night, bone-tired but unable to rest, flexing and relaxing his right hand; he took a bad slice off a mercenary's blade two weeks back and it hasn't been healing right, though he would never admit it out loud. He stares at the ceiling of the tent and tries to make out patterns in the weaving to lull himself to sleep. Perhaps it even works, because what he sees next is a shock: Morgana, sitting by a fire on some windswept plain under the night sky. He cannot see her face but he knows it is her all the same - his soul could not mistake the fall of that black hair or the curve of her back or the twist of her booted ankle. She is pulling weeds apart in her hands distractedly, tossing them into the flames. Anxious, or perhaps just cross.
He tries to talk but cannot. Morgana turns all the same, her mouth opening round in surprise or perhaps to speak, but Arthur is already waking; the next time he blinks he is left staring at the ceiling of his tent once more, heart thundering in his chest.
He does not sleep for the rest of the night.
The next time he dreams of her he recognises where they are: Tintagel, his babyhood home and the castle where she grew up. She is sitting on the rocks overlooking the crashing sea, her dress and cloak tucked in around her feet against the wind.
This time he finds he can talk.
"Are you doing this?"
Morgana hooks her hair behind her ear; the wind snatches it away again immediately. "What do you think?" she says, smiling, lips red against her teeth.
"I thought you were dead," he says, settling onto the rocks beside her.
"No, you didn't," she says, and he nods: fair enough.
She laughs, leans forward to touch his wrist. "You've missed me, Arthur Pendragon," she says. "Admit it."
"Will you not leave me be?" he says wretchedly, but his words are taken away on the wind, and he is still talking when he opens his eyes and realises with a jolt that he is back in his bed at Camelot.
He sits up and buries his face in his hands.
Guinevere stirs beside him.
"Arthur?" she says, pushing herself up on one hand. Her curling hair brushes against his shoulder as she touches his chest worriedly, and he flinches away from her hand, remembering Morgana's fingertips skimming across his bare skin -
"It's nothing," he says, thinking he might be sick. "Go back to sleep."
He is expecting her the third time.
They are in a ring of standing stones Arthur dimly remembers from his youth, the grey sky touched with pre-dawn light at the far horizon.
"Do you recognise this place?" Morgana is wearing a white cloak, a crown of flowers he cannot name tangled in her curls.
He frowns, trying to remember, smoothing his palm across the top of the waist-high rock they called the altar stone - though what its true purpose was has long since passed out of living memory.
"Yes," he says slowly. His palm stings red-hot, and he snatches his hand away from the stone, thinking he snagged it on something, but Morgana's gaze is fixed on his expectantly.
He remembers: pulling out his knife, slicing open his palm and hers, clasping their hands together and swearing, voices hitching with sorrow and dread -
What was it that he swore to her?
"Blood calls to blood, brother," she says. "In more ways than one."
He stares.
"What do you mean, sister?"
She smiles and he sees that blood is running down her fingers anew, staining the hem of snowy cloak. "You'll see soon enough," she says.
He opens his clenched fist and sees the scarlet cut he knew would be there.
I am coming for you, brother, is her ghostly whisper left ringing in his ears as he wakes once more.