Inconstant Rose: Merlin Fic
Author: Bitterfig
Title: Inconstant Rose
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Morgana/Guinevere (Gwen)
Summary: Morgana and Gwen go to a nearby kingdom to visit Morgana’s dearest childhood friend, Roshannon. Morgana is distressed to discover that their bond is no longer what it once was.
Beta Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 1335
Rating: PG
Warnings: a bit of angst, a bit of sexual content highly romanticized.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fan fiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator
Inconstant Rose
In autumn, when the trees turned red and gold, my mistress Morgana and I rode from Camelot to the nearby kingdom of Shiadora. We went on a visit to the Lady Roshannon who was Morgana’s most beloved friend since childhood. She had married the year before, but illness had kept Morgana at home. Now however Morgana was well and went to celebrate the birth of Roshannon’s son.
“My Rose,” Morgana called her with such reverence in her voice that it hurt my heart. “My precious Rose.”
I had never met this paragon Morgana so cherished. She and my mistress had played together and forged their friendship before I entered into my Lady’s service. Still, I knew much of Roshannon. Morgana spoke of her often and glowingly and wrote her long letters. When a letter arrived from Roshannon, it was a great event.
I ought to have delighted in Morgana’s fondness for Roshannon. After all, it made her happy. Yet I cared little to hear of Roshannon. Presumptuous as it sounds, I felt this childhood friend occupied a place in Morgana’s heart that was rightfully mine. Wasn’t I her loyal companion, her faithful servant, her confidante and friend?
Whatever I was, it seemed to me that Roshannon came first and was held highest in Morgana’s affections. I told myself it was only right, that my mistress’s love should be reserved for a lady of her own rank. I told myself this but I could not make myself believe it.
All the way to Shiadora, Morgana spoke of little but Roshannon. She told me of the games they had played as children, the balls and feasts and revelries they had attended together, of Roshannon’s beauty and Roshannon’s wit.
I said little. What was there for me to say?
The castle of Shiadora was very grand. Built of rosy marble, it was high and airy, so pretty compared to the stolid fortress of Camelot. The mistress of Shiadora was as lovely as her kingdom. The moment I saw her I realized that Morgana had not been exaggerating when she praised her friend’s beauty. Roshannon was a breathtaking little thing, so petite and delicate I felt like a giantess beside her. Small as she was, Roshannon was curvaceously built, ripe and voluptuous. She had blazing red hair that streamed down her back and alabaster pale skin blushed with pink. When she met us she was wearing a crimson gown and I found I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
“Rose,” Morgana greeted her warmly.
“Please,” the Lady said, “You must call me Roshannon. I’m a married woman now with a child and no longer a maid.”
“Of course,” Morgana agreed readily and they kissed each other in greeting. Watching them I couldn’t help but notice that there was a certain chill in Roshannon’s smile, a restraint to her embrace.
“Come,” Roshannon said, taking Morgana’s arm. “You must see my little boy now.”
Roshannon swept Morgana off to the nursery. Alone and feeling quite sorry for myself I went to Morgana’s chambers to unpack her things.
Dinner was served in a beautiful hall with high stained glass windows of pink and red roses and scarlet leaves spread out on the floor. I attended to my lady, bringing her wine, a little bread and fruit (after a long journey she could eat little else).
Morgana sat at one end of a long table, Roshannon and her husband at the other. It seemed to me our hostess took little notice of her guest. She spoke to her husband about their child, laughing and cooing, and scarcely acknowledged Morgana.
I think Morgana was troubled by this, though she tried to keep her spirits up. In her chambers, I offered my Lady the sleeping draught she took each night but she refused.
“Rose will be here soon,” she told me. “She always comes, or sends for me and we stay up half the night, catching up.”
So we waited for a knock on the door, but neither Roshannon nor her servant appeared. When it was well past midnight, I fell asleep only to be awoken by Morgana’s cries. She had also drifted off and without Gaius’s remedy her nightmares had come on with overwhelming strength.
The next day Morgana was tired and pale with dark circles around her eyes. Still, she smiled brightly and paid court to Roshannon throughout the day. As was the case the evening before, her friend seemed preoccupied. I could scarcely blame Roshannon for being an attentive mother, but even when he was sleeping her babe dominated her attention and she had little to spare for Morgana.
That night, Morgana’s distress was evident.
“I don’t understand what’s happened,” she said, wringing her hands. “Could I have offended her in some way? Am I doing something wrong, Gwen?”
“Of course not, you’ve been a model of courtesy,” I told her.
“Rose and I have always been like sisters, closer than sisters. I just can’t understand…”
The next day she seemed to double her efforts to please Roshannon. I found it almost painful and could scarcely watch. It was as though she was a lowly servant (lower and more servile than I had ever been made to feel) and Roshannon her indifferent mistress.
At one point in the afternoon, Roshannon’s baby fell to fussing. Morgana rocked the child in his cradle and began to sing him to sleep. Her voice was beautiful and soothing, but the child continued to cry.
“Stop that,” Roshannon snapped. “You’re only keeping him awake.”
Tears welled up in Morgana’s eyes at her rebuke and fell silently down her face.
“For heaven’s sake, Morgana, do you have to be so dramatic?” Roshannon said coldly. “Do I have to deal with both of you weeping?”
Back in her chambers, Morgana wept in earnest. At dinner that night her eyes were red rimmed and she ate almost nothing.
“I will be leaving in the morning,” she told our hostess as the table was cleared.
“That may be for the best,” Roshannon said curtly. “You have to realize, Morgana that things can’t be as they once were. We’re no longer young girls. I’m a wife now, and a mother.”
“Oh Gwen,” Morgana sobbed when we were back in her chambers, “are the bonds between maidens something to be put aside by women, like an outgrown gown?”
“No, my Lady,” I told her. “Only for some.”
“I loved her,” Morgana said. “I loved her and once, she loved me. We danced and we kissed and we shared a bed on many nights. There was love between us but now it’s gone, as if it never existed. There was nothing I could do to save it…”
And though it was presumptuous I took her in my arms, stroking her long, dark hair.
“She isn’t worth your tears, my Lady,” I said. “If she can’t see what a gift your love is she can’t see at all. She lives amidst beauty but she’s blind. I pity her.”
“You’re sweet,” she said. “So sweet. If only I could believe you. Someday soon you’ll marry yourself and leave me. You’ll forget whatever affection you bore me just as starlight fades with the rising sun…”
I thought of Arthur’s kiss and of Lancelot and how they filled my heart with joy and yearning all at once. Yet I could never forsake Morgana as Roshannon had. Both men were in my heart but Morgana was there as well, all of them together in the part of me that held love.
“I will never forget you or the love I bear you,” I said earnestly. “Even if I were a queen, I would still be your devoted servant. You will always be in my heart.”
I kissed her then, a sad and sweet and binding kiss, a promise. She lay back on the pink satin coverlet, her dark hair tangled all about her, her white dress seeming to glow.
“Thank you,” she whispered, smiling through her tears.
Title: Inconstant Rose
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Morgana/Guinevere (Gwen)
Summary: Morgana and Gwen go to a nearby kingdom to visit Morgana’s dearest childhood friend, Roshannon. Morgana is distressed to discover that their bond is no longer what it once was.
Beta Reader: Fedink
Word Count: 1335
Rating: PG
Warnings: a bit of angst, a bit of sexual content highly romanticized.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any illegal acts taking place within that fiction are NOT condoned by the author. Depictions of any questionable, illegal, or potentially illegal activity in said fiction does not mean that I condone, promote, support, participate in, or approve of said activity. I grasp the distinction between fiction and reality and trust that readers will do the same. I do not profit from the fan fiction I write, and all rights to the characters remain firmly in the hands of their creator
Inconstant Rose
In autumn, when the trees turned red and gold, my mistress Morgana and I rode from Camelot to the nearby kingdom of Shiadora. We went on a visit to the Lady Roshannon who was Morgana’s most beloved friend since childhood. She had married the year before, but illness had kept Morgana at home. Now however Morgana was well and went to celebrate the birth of Roshannon’s son.
“My Rose,” Morgana called her with such reverence in her voice that it hurt my heart. “My precious Rose.”
I had never met this paragon Morgana so cherished. She and my mistress had played together and forged their friendship before I entered into my Lady’s service. Still, I knew much of Roshannon. Morgana spoke of her often and glowingly and wrote her long letters. When a letter arrived from Roshannon, it was a great event.
I ought to have delighted in Morgana’s fondness for Roshannon. After all, it made her happy. Yet I cared little to hear of Roshannon. Presumptuous as it sounds, I felt this childhood friend occupied a place in Morgana’s heart that was rightfully mine. Wasn’t I her loyal companion, her faithful servant, her confidante and friend?
Whatever I was, it seemed to me that Roshannon came first and was held highest in Morgana’s affections. I told myself it was only right, that my mistress’s love should be reserved for a lady of her own rank. I told myself this but I could not make myself believe it.
All the way to Shiadora, Morgana spoke of little but Roshannon. She told me of the games they had played as children, the balls and feasts and revelries they had attended together, of Roshannon’s beauty and Roshannon’s wit.
I said little. What was there for me to say?
The castle of Shiadora was very grand. Built of rosy marble, it was high and airy, so pretty compared to the stolid fortress of Camelot. The mistress of Shiadora was as lovely as her kingdom. The moment I saw her I realized that Morgana had not been exaggerating when she praised her friend’s beauty. Roshannon was a breathtaking little thing, so petite and delicate I felt like a giantess beside her. Small as she was, Roshannon was curvaceously built, ripe and voluptuous. She had blazing red hair that streamed down her back and alabaster pale skin blushed with pink. When she met us she was wearing a crimson gown and I found I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
“Rose,” Morgana greeted her warmly.
“Please,” the Lady said, “You must call me Roshannon. I’m a married woman now with a child and no longer a maid.”
“Of course,” Morgana agreed readily and they kissed each other in greeting. Watching them I couldn’t help but notice that there was a certain chill in Roshannon’s smile, a restraint to her embrace.
“Come,” Roshannon said, taking Morgana’s arm. “You must see my little boy now.”
Roshannon swept Morgana off to the nursery. Alone and feeling quite sorry for myself I went to Morgana’s chambers to unpack her things.
Dinner was served in a beautiful hall with high stained glass windows of pink and red roses and scarlet leaves spread out on the floor. I attended to my lady, bringing her wine, a little bread and fruit (after a long journey she could eat little else).
Morgana sat at one end of a long table, Roshannon and her husband at the other. It seemed to me our hostess took little notice of her guest. She spoke to her husband about their child, laughing and cooing, and scarcely acknowledged Morgana.
I think Morgana was troubled by this, though she tried to keep her spirits up. In her chambers, I offered my Lady the sleeping draught she took each night but she refused.
“Rose will be here soon,” she told me. “She always comes, or sends for me and we stay up half the night, catching up.”
So we waited for a knock on the door, but neither Roshannon nor her servant appeared. When it was well past midnight, I fell asleep only to be awoken by Morgana’s cries. She had also drifted off and without Gaius’s remedy her nightmares had come on with overwhelming strength.
The next day Morgana was tired and pale with dark circles around her eyes. Still, she smiled brightly and paid court to Roshannon throughout the day. As was the case the evening before, her friend seemed preoccupied. I could scarcely blame Roshannon for being an attentive mother, but even when he was sleeping her babe dominated her attention and she had little to spare for Morgana.
That night, Morgana’s distress was evident.
“I don’t understand what’s happened,” she said, wringing her hands. “Could I have offended her in some way? Am I doing something wrong, Gwen?”
“Of course not, you’ve been a model of courtesy,” I told her.
“Rose and I have always been like sisters, closer than sisters. I just can’t understand…”
The next day she seemed to double her efforts to please Roshannon. I found it almost painful and could scarcely watch. It was as though she was a lowly servant (lower and more servile than I had ever been made to feel) and Roshannon her indifferent mistress.
At one point in the afternoon, Roshannon’s baby fell to fussing. Morgana rocked the child in his cradle and began to sing him to sleep. Her voice was beautiful and soothing, but the child continued to cry.
“Stop that,” Roshannon snapped. “You’re only keeping him awake.”
Tears welled up in Morgana’s eyes at her rebuke and fell silently down her face.
“For heaven’s sake, Morgana, do you have to be so dramatic?” Roshannon said coldly. “Do I have to deal with both of you weeping?”
Back in her chambers, Morgana wept in earnest. At dinner that night her eyes were red rimmed and she ate almost nothing.
“I will be leaving in the morning,” she told our hostess as the table was cleared.
“That may be for the best,” Roshannon said curtly. “You have to realize, Morgana that things can’t be as they once were. We’re no longer young girls. I’m a wife now, and a mother.”
“Oh Gwen,” Morgana sobbed when we were back in her chambers, “are the bonds between maidens something to be put aside by women, like an outgrown gown?”
“No, my Lady,” I told her. “Only for some.”
“I loved her,” Morgana said. “I loved her and once, she loved me. We danced and we kissed and we shared a bed on many nights. There was love between us but now it’s gone, as if it never existed. There was nothing I could do to save it…”
And though it was presumptuous I took her in my arms, stroking her long, dark hair.
“She isn’t worth your tears, my Lady,” I said. “If she can’t see what a gift your love is she can’t see at all. She lives amidst beauty but she’s blind. I pity her.”
“You’re sweet,” she said. “So sweet. If only I could believe you. Someday soon you’ll marry yourself and leave me. You’ll forget whatever affection you bore me just as starlight fades with the rising sun…”
I thought of Arthur’s kiss and of Lancelot and how they filled my heart with joy and yearning all at once. Yet I could never forsake Morgana as Roshannon had. Both men were in my heart but Morgana was there as well, all of them together in the part of me that held love.
“I will never forget you or the love I bear you,” I said earnestly. “Even if I were a queen, I would still be your devoted servant. You will always be in my heart.”
I kissed her then, a sad and sweet and binding kiss, a promise. She lay back on the pink satin coverlet, her dark hair tangled all about her, her white dress seeming to glow.
“Thank you,” she whispered, smiling through her tears.