lovepb's gift from furloughday
Title: And there's another broken heart
Words: 1,500
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Gwen/Morgana, Morgana/Morgause
Summary: Gwen will not give up on her mistress without a fight.
Spoilers: Season 3
A/N: Written for lovepb for the merlin-santa exchange. I failed at a completely happy ending, whoops. Anyway, happy holidays!
It will go down in history as the best save.
The tulips she arranged on the table at breakfast had been cut fresh from the castle garden and brought in with the milk. Gwen picked them out specially from the kitchens, and displayed them beside the tea and sausage.
“They’re beautiful, Gwen,” Morgana said, gladly, like she hadn't expected it, and Gwen looked at her through lowered lashes and then made a show of fussing over the ribbons that laced at the back of Morgana's gown.
Her parents, God rest their souls, had taught her to persist in her duties, and this was one of them, seeing to it that Morgana was dressed and comfortable and fit to serve the king. They had taught Gwen to work with her hands, that invaluable trade. Her mother had, after all, been seamstress and maidservant in Sir Leon's house, and had handed Gwen bolts of cloth to be spread out on the long table while she stitched, a song on her breath while her daughter's eyes followed birds out the window and the systematic push and tug of needle in turns. Her father taught her to beat out a warble in a sword with a heavy mallet over the anvil and blasting forge.
After her brother left and their mother died, Gwen had found work at the castle and the tailoring and metallurgy became secondary while she learned to be one of the most constant and knowledgeable servants in Camelot proper. It was she who had attended Morgana when she woke in the night with terrors that were only to worsen over the years, and Gwen had never once missed a day of work, not unless it was expressly given off. It was she who had taken it upon herself to teach new servants like Merlin all that they needed to know about life in the castle. Despite the tell-tale signs of an impending darkness, Gwen was always there to replace the candle stubs with fresh tapers and to sit up with Morgana in the early morning light.
She had been attending the Lady Morgana since she was thirteen years old, and for this shared history, among other reasons, she was not going to give up on her like this, without a fight and brokenhearted.
Gwen saw them meet in the raised walkway in the chapel that afternoon. "God's house, of all places to choose," her mother would have said, but Gwen would ask, if she trusted her voice, "Morgana, why here? The echoes will give you away."
Morgause and Morgana may have shared a mother, but Morgana had shared her life with the people who lived at the castle. She had stood up for them during dire times, and was the pride and joy of Camelot's citizens, the king's ward, an emblem of virtue. Gwen knew what was truly in her heart, and she would not stand by while Morgana was poisoned against them all.
“Uther has sentenced yet another sorcerer to death,” Morgana was saying. "All for the crime of practicing a magic she was born to. She was executed before her family and friends."
Morgause stepped in, too close for Gwen's comfort.
"He must pay for this," Morgana whispered.
"And he shall, sister," Morgause said. "But the time is not yet right."
Gwen wanted to go to her, to lead her back to her chambers or take a walk through the market to look at the new silks, anywhere but here. Gwen would sew her a hundred dresses if she asked, but instead she sat by, listening in the dark, stomach turning when she heard what Morgause had planned. She turned away at Morgana's fingertips at lips that were not her own.
She left shortly thereafter to go bring fresh water from the pump.
The afternoon was crisp in the way only November in Camelot could be. The half moon was already visible in the pale blue of the sky, and when she passed through the crowds of joyous, home-bound people, they were all rubbing their hands together for warmth and buying cider for pennies at rickety carts. Gwen thought about her situation, and asked after shopkeepers that she knew, and bought an apple for later because the kitchen had run out. She deserved an apple after the days she'd been having. At one point she caught sight of Merlin loping through the crowd after Arthur, the two looking like they were on another one of their missions. Soon they disappeared round the armory.
She kept on, heading back to the pump.
She thought of what she could do to test the situation. Her heart hurt that Morgana was so angry, that she might feel so alone in her own home. The only thing to do seemed to be to bring it up gently, and work at it slowly. Like a horse that had gone shy, she would need to regain Morgana's trust, although she couldn't for the life of her think of one thing she had done to break it.
On her way back to the castle, Gwen bought an armload of pinks with dry, crenellated petals that might last longer than other autumn blooms.
Dinner that night was a strained thing, Arthur talking about a beast near the borders, while Uther answered and cut slyly at a large chicken on a platter before him. Morgana offered counsel that was taken into consideration, and Morgause's current plan to undermine Camelot at the very base continued to unfurl before Gwen's eyes.
She didn't address it until Morgana came back late that night. Gwen was still half-awake, swaddled up in royal sheets on the pallet in the antechamber, and at the noise, she lit a candle and went to the next room. She drew down the bed sheets and made sure the windows were tightly closed against the outside chill. She gathered the riding cloak into the laundry hamper to ready it for the next night or the one after that, and Morgana undid pin after pin from her coiled hair so that it fell down her back. Gwen went to brush it through with an ivory comb.
"Couldn't you sleep?" Morgana asked her.
"As well as ever," she said. She picked out a bit of leaf and placed it on the dressing table. Morgana had been to the forest, then.
Morgana met her gaze in the mirror. "What's wrong, Gwen? Be honest with me."
"Sometimes-" Gwen looked down at her hands, how they trembled as they knotted the hair into a fine plait. "Sometimes I worry for you.”
Morgana frowned. “What is troubling you?”
Gwen brushed her fingers over the nape of Morgana’s neck, a placating gesture, and the frown fluttered away.
“I thought that when Arthur found you, things would go back to the way they were. But I worry that you have a sadness that has not yet been cured, despite your happy return."
She thought of the effigy Morgana had burnt, and the box of sand that she had watched Morgana hide away and lock inside a drawer of the desk; sadness was not the right word for it, and besides, Gwen had a key to everything Morgana owned.
“Some things cannot be cured by a return to what was once normal.”
Morgana met her eyes in the mirror.
"I only wish for your happiness," Gwen finally said.
"You've always been so good to me."
Long before Arthur had been crowned prince, before Merlin arrived in Camelot, far before that, when Gwen was ten-years-old and helping out, she had watched her mother freshening her mistresses' room with bouquets of flowers just like the pinks at the boudoir. Morgana was never this open as she was there in her room, Gwen handing her flowers she had picked by the training field or bought at the market. She thought of how Morgana sometimes pressed a kiss to her cheek while she arranged the long stems in a glassblown vase that had been imported from a southern town by the sea.
It seemed the done thing. She brought in a new batch every time the last one dried.
"My loyalty lies with you," Gwen told her.
“I know.”
When they finally went to bed, it seemed a waste to spend her last moments of wakefulness on worries. They were sure to be there tomorrow, and soon Gwen would solve this whole thing, would find the weak points in the fabric of their lives and stitch them over until Morgana was good as new with satin and fine thread.
It had been sweltering that day last summer, she remembered, and the fight had been brutal, Arthur against a foreign woman who had seemed bent to kill.
"My lady," Gwen had breathed over the clash of swords. Morgana's hand had found hers in her lap, cool fingers twining tight with anticipation.
"I worry for Arthur," Morgana had said, but her eyes had followed that woman Morgause until the last moment.
Words: 1,500
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Gwen/Morgana, Morgana/Morgause
Summary: Gwen will not give up on her mistress without a fight.
Spoilers: Season 3
A/N: Written for lovepb for the merlin-santa exchange. I failed at a completely happy ending, whoops. Anyway, happy holidays!
It will go down in history as the best save.
The tulips she arranged on the table at breakfast had been cut fresh from the castle garden and brought in with the milk. Gwen picked them out specially from the kitchens, and displayed them beside the tea and sausage.
“They’re beautiful, Gwen,” Morgana said, gladly, like she hadn't expected it, and Gwen looked at her through lowered lashes and then made a show of fussing over the ribbons that laced at the back of Morgana's gown.
Her parents, God rest their souls, had taught her to persist in her duties, and this was one of them, seeing to it that Morgana was dressed and comfortable and fit to serve the king. They had taught Gwen to work with her hands, that invaluable trade. Her mother had, after all, been seamstress and maidservant in Sir Leon's house, and had handed Gwen bolts of cloth to be spread out on the long table while she stitched, a song on her breath while her daughter's eyes followed birds out the window and the systematic push and tug of needle in turns. Her father taught her to beat out a warble in a sword with a heavy mallet over the anvil and blasting forge.
After her brother left and their mother died, Gwen had found work at the castle and the tailoring and metallurgy became secondary while she learned to be one of the most constant and knowledgeable servants in Camelot proper. It was she who had attended Morgana when she woke in the night with terrors that were only to worsen over the years, and Gwen had never once missed a day of work, not unless it was expressly given off. It was she who had taken it upon herself to teach new servants like Merlin all that they needed to know about life in the castle. Despite the tell-tale signs of an impending darkness, Gwen was always there to replace the candle stubs with fresh tapers and to sit up with Morgana in the early morning light.
She had been attending the Lady Morgana since she was thirteen years old, and for this shared history, among other reasons, she was not going to give up on her like this, without a fight and brokenhearted.
Gwen saw them meet in the raised walkway in the chapel that afternoon. "God's house, of all places to choose," her mother would have said, but Gwen would ask, if she trusted her voice, "Morgana, why here? The echoes will give you away."
Morgause and Morgana may have shared a mother, but Morgana had shared her life with the people who lived at the castle. She had stood up for them during dire times, and was the pride and joy of Camelot's citizens, the king's ward, an emblem of virtue. Gwen knew what was truly in her heart, and she would not stand by while Morgana was poisoned against them all.
“Uther has sentenced yet another sorcerer to death,” Morgana was saying. "All for the crime of practicing a magic she was born to. She was executed before her family and friends."
Morgause stepped in, too close for Gwen's comfort.
"He must pay for this," Morgana whispered.
"And he shall, sister," Morgause said. "But the time is not yet right."
Gwen wanted to go to her, to lead her back to her chambers or take a walk through the market to look at the new silks, anywhere but here. Gwen would sew her a hundred dresses if she asked, but instead she sat by, listening in the dark, stomach turning when she heard what Morgause had planned. She turned away at Morgana's fingertips at lips that were not her own.
She left shortly thereafter to go bring fresh water from the pump.
The afternoon was crisp in the way only November in Camelot could be. The half moon was already visible in the pale blue of the sky, and when she passed through the crowds of joyous, home-bound people, they were all rubbing their hands together for warmth and buying cider for pennies at rickety carts. Gwen thought about her situation, and asked after shopkeepers that she knew, and bought an apple for later because the kitchen had run out. She deserved an apple after the days she'd been having. At one point she caught sight of Merlin loping through the crowd after Arthur, the two looking like they were on another one of their missions. Soon they disappeared round the armory.
She kept on, heading back to the pump.
She thought of what she could do to test the situation. Her heart hurt that Morgana was so angry, that she might feel so alone in her own home. The only thing to do seemed to be to bring it up gently, and work at it slowly. Like a horse that had gone shy, she would need to regain Morgana's trust, although she couldn't for the life of her think of one thing she had done to break it.
On her way back to the castle, Gwen bought an armload of pinks with dry, crenellated petals that might last longer than other autumn blooms.
Dinner that night was a strained thing, Arthur talking about a beast near the borders, while Uther answered and cut slyly at a large chicken on a platter before him. Morgana offered counsel that was taken into consideration, and Morgause's current plan to undermine Camelot at the very base continued to unfurl before Gwen's eyes.
She didn't address it until Morgana came back late that night. Gwen was still half-awake, swaddled up in royal sheets on the pallet in the antechamber, and at the noise, she lit a candle and went to the next room. She drew down the bed sheets and made sure the windows were tightly closed against the outside chill. She gathered the riding cloak into the laundry hamper to ready it for the next night or the one after that, and Morgana undid pin after pin from her coiled hair so that it fell down her back. Gwen went to brush it through with an ivory comb.
"Couldn't you sleep?" Morgana asked her.
"As well as ever," she said. She picked out a bit of leaf and placed it on the dressing table. Morgana had been to the forest, then.
Morgana met her gaze in the mirror. "What's wrong, Gwen? Be honest with me."
"Sometimes-" Gwen looked down at her hands, how they trembled as they knotted the hair into a fine plait. "Sometimes I worry for you.”
Morgana frowned. “What is troubling you?”
Gwen brushed her fingers over the nape of Morgana’s neck, a placating gesture, and the frown fluttered away.
“I thought that when Arthur found you, things would go back to the way they were. But I worry that you have a sadness that has not yet been cured, despite your happy return."
She thought of the effigy Morgana had burnt, and the box of sand that she had watched Morgana hide away and lock inside a drawer of the desk; sadness was not the right word for it, and besides, Gwen had a key to everything Morgana owned.
“Some things cannot be cured by a return to what was once normal.”
Morgana met her eyes in the mirror.
"I only wish for your happiness," Gwen finally said.
"You've always been so good to me."
Long before Arthur had been crowned prince, before Merlin arrived in Camelot, far before that, when Gwen was ten-years-old and helping out, she had watched her mother freshening her mistresses' room with bouquets of flowers just like the pinks at the boudoir. Morgana was never this open as she was there in her room, Gwen handing her flowers she had picked by the training field or bought at the market. She thought of how Morgana sometimes pressed a kiss to her cheek while she arranged the long stems in a glassblown vase that had been imported from a southern town by the sea.
It seemed the done thing. She brought in a new batch every time the last one dried.
"My loyalty lies with you," Gwen told her.
“I know.”
When they finally went to bed, it seemed a waste to spend her last moments of wakefulness on worries. They were sure to be there tomorrow, and soon Gwen would solve this whole thing, would find the weak points in the fabric of their lives and stitch them over until Morgana was good as new with satin and fine thread.
It had been sweltering that day last summer, she remembered, and the fight had been brutal, Arthur against a foreign woman who had seemed bent to kill.
"My lady," Gwen had breathed over the clash of swords. Morgana's hand had found hers in her lap, cool fingers twining tight with anticipation.
"I worry for Arthur," Morgana had said, but her eyes had followed that woman Morgause until the last moment.