Fic: Merlin: dream it so
She doesn’t really know how she got to Ealdor. She must’ve remembered the way without thinking about it, following the traces of old memories. She’s ridden this way before, younger and more determined. Standing in the doorway of Hunith’s cottage, Morgana feels suddenly very young, like a long-limbed awkward child.
“Come on in,” Hunith says. “You look like you need some rest.”
It’s not very often that something of Merlin shines through in Hunith. Morgana doesn’t see the past - she sees the future. It bleeds into the present. In dreams, in daytime. She sleeps easier in Ealdor, away from the bloodstained walls and courtyards of Camelot. Here, Morgana sees the future of Ealdor - the seasons changing, faces growing more wrinkled, scraped children’s knees. She stands at the edge of a field, watches the crops turn golden and the blue of the sky greyer. Hunith comes up to her, touches her shoulder, and the migrating bird formation Morgana was following disappears above the field as the present flickers back into place.
“Will you tell me how Merlin is?” Hunith asks one evening.
Morgana twists her fingers in the coarse fabric of the blanket. She thinks of Merlin, of Camelot, sees blood and swords and pain and betrayal, heavy silences, thinly disguised treason. She couldn’t say what has happened, what is yet to come. Which head bears the crown?
“Alright,” says Hunith and takes Morgana’s face in her hands, strokes her cheeks with callused thumbs. Morgana clings to her like a woman drowning.
Morgana’s body isn’t used to peasant work. Her hands, though stronger and more hardened from secret sword practice than most noblewomen’s, quickly turn dry and chapped when she helps Hunith do the washing. Morgana moves through the village with a grace that’s out of place, here. She came dressed in old riding clothes, comfortable, practical. In Camelot she wore them when no one would see. They weren’t clothes befitting the King’s ward. Here, they mark her as foreign, above, out of place. The first morning Hunith gave her an old dress of her own, instead. She helped Morgana into it, smoothed the rough thin fabric over Morgana’s shoulders. It’s an odd feeling, moving in this dress that was made for Hunith, that she has lived and worked in, that smells like her. Morgana grew up in dresses fitted for her by attentive seamstresses, smelling of flowers someone picked to please her. She likes the way Hunith’s dress hangs loosely on her, how the fabric rasps against her stomach. She thinks about Hunith’s callused thumbs on her skin.
Ealdor is peaceful. Morgana dreams it to continue so, wills it, imagines this little village shrouded in her dreams, wrapped in mists that lure any wanderer away from his path. She weaves the images, half-awake in the evenings, then dreams them while she sleeps. No soldier, no tax collector, not even a wandering bard comes to Ealdor while Morgana is there, dreaming.
There is a storm. Morgana feels it crackling across her skin, thrumming deep within her as great gusts of wind hurl around the village and lightning cracks across the sky. Hunith lights a small fire to keep them warm and sits down to sing, an old ballad. Morgana hums along, knowing the tune but not the words, and watches Hunith’s face in the firelight. She looks golden, warmly glowing.
In the morning they go out to find that the storm left all the crops unharmed. Morgana wonders what tried to enter Ealdor, last night. The fence behind Hunith’s house, though, is broken. Morgana spends the day repairing it. At dusk she’s finished. Her arms and back are aching, and she has splinters in her fingers. The fence might be uneven in places, but it’s there and it’s solid. It’s nothing but her own hands’ work. Hunith offers her warm, fresh bread when she comes back in.
Later, Morgana’s back aches so much that she can hardly move without undignified whimpers trying to escape her. Hunith laughs and says that something needs to be done. She leads Morgana to the bed, lays her down on her stomach and kneels over her. Morgana feels Hunith’s thighs on each side of her own, her warm breath on her neck, and then Hunith’s strong hands working her muscles like dough. Hunith presses her knuckles down on each side of Morgana’s spine, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through her body. Morgana feels like she’s melting under Hunith’s hands, her body worked soft and yielding, relaxing bonelessly into the bed. Paradoxically a new pressure is building, deep in her, as Hunith moves above her. When Hunith leans forward to press her thumbs harder in Morgana’s shoulders, Morgana feels her thighs flexing, her weight shifting, pressing her hips deeper down into the bed. She feels like she’s burning. Hunith’s touch, her sure, strong hands, is so pleasurable it verges on painful. When Hunith’s hands still, resting on Morgana’s neck, it feels only natural for Morgana to turn under her, so that she can bring her own hands up to Hunith’s waist.
When Hunith’s fingers press deep into Morgana, into new uncharted territory, she trembles. She sees herself in Hunith’s eyes, pale skinned and dark-haired, a strange, fey creature of a girl who yields and quivers under Hunith’s warm human hands. Morgana surges up, claiming that wide smile as hers, nibbling the corners of it. She flips them around, pressing her sharp angles (hipbones, ribs, knees) into Hunith’s softer well-muscled body. She sees the past and future twirl across Hunith’s face, sees her cry and laugh and scream and shrink into a child and grow to an old woman in seconds. Hunith cups her face, thumbs at the corner of her eyes, and then Morgana sees nothing but this moment: the small flecks of gold in Hunith’s eyes, the freckles on the bridge of her nose. She kisses her, again. This, she hasn’t dreamed. But she will.