Fic: Spring Fling Drabble - Duel
Title: The story of Warm Bronze, Part 2
Author: mustbethursday3
Prompt(s): #78, Duel for camelot_love's drabble part of Spring Fling. (prompt was originally for fanart)
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: 1370 ---Word limits and I are like oil and water . . . MESSY.
Summary: Morgana and Gwen have some mother/daughter time . . .
Author's notes: It's some weird retelling of Snow White that popped into my head. So, yeh, going to muddy up the waters of fairytaledom as much as possible . . . coz I can XD.
DON'T JUDGE ME ON MY RHYMING. PLEASE.
Part 1
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?
You my Queen are fair, it's true, but the beauty of Guinevere surpasses you . . .
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
In a week Gwen would be eighteen, and finally, she could petition for the crown, as rightful heir to the throne.
She didn’t doubt that the last six years would seem easy in comparison to the week, the lifetime - however short - she had before her . . .
She caught the transparent eyes watching her in the reflected surface of her dresser mirror, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t turn, as the Queen sent the servants from the room and proceeded to take over.
When those delicate hands begun deftly brushing her tresses, almost kindly, Gwen wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
The woman had spent the last six years becoming an authority at ignoring her, until Gwen had begun to wonder at her own existence, had to continually check that she was still there by pinching herself. Always hoping that it was a nightmare.
That perhaps, she had gone mad in her sleep and it would be over soon, her father waking her, and gently smoothing the hair from her face as he informed her of the adventures they would have . . . just as soon as the Kingdom calmed down, when they could run away for a few days, a week . . . just the two of them.
Just Tom and Gwen.
Father and Daughter.
Vagabonds with the stars.
She may have fallen far from those days, but owed herself those small moments to wonder what if . . . just to keep sane in the sea of madness around her.
“You seem to grow more beautiful with every passing moment,” Morgana murmured, twisting Gwen’s hair into a tight braid, before producing a clip and fastening it.
It shone bright and gold, contrasting brilliantly against the ebony of Gwen’s curls, she turned her head to see it better, and feeling the cool metal against her scalp, instinctively reached up for it.
“Thank you,” Gwen replied, routinely. It had been made clear to her that it was best to accept compliments, rather then challenge them.
A fall down the stairs at thirteen . . . a snake in her boot at fourteen . . . and at fifteen poisonous spiders had made their home above her bed overnight . . . all mysterious, unexplained, unconnected.
Except for the fights she’d had with her stepmother previous to each event.
From the glances she’d caught passing between the servants, hell, the nobles, she’d known they had all come to the same silent conclusion.
Morgana batted her hand away with a smile - it was lukewarm at best, but a feat indeed for one who rarely did so - and pulled Gwen’s chair out, urging her up. “Now, now, don’t ruin my good work, or I shall be cross,” she chastised, lightly.
Gwen stood, slowly, with a patience that could only be earned from many years of suffering, and looked at the woman before her. At the gradually appearing lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, the softening of her cheekbones, the thinning of her lips - time and stress had weathered Morgana since their first meeting.
And thinking of it, of her father, suddenly Gwen could not hold her temper, could not silence herself.
“You have grown old, stepmother. Every day is clear upon your face for all to see.”
She caught the wrist of the hand that would have struck her, her reflexes not slowed from ill use, holding Morgana’s abruptly stormy eyes with the calm of someone dealing with an unruly child.
“I think you must be overexcited by your approaching day,” the older woman grit out, just short of spitting. That would have been unladylike. “You are eager to receive your gifts?”
Gwen smiled warmly. “I mean to claim the throne and then you shall be thrown out. Forgotten. Wiped from our histories.” She pushed the Queen’s arm down, to her side and let it go. “Your name shall never be spoken within these walls.”
Gwen was ready when Morgana reached for the stave leaning against the wall, ripping it from pale fingers and throwing it as hard as she could. It flew through the air, and by chance, out through the open window and presumably onto the roof somewhere.
“I must insist upon equal footing,” Gwen said, raising her eyebrows, as Morgana turned from the window to glare malevolently at her. “This is more important than tricks.”
She saw the sorceress’s lips move silently and ducked, covering her head as the windows blew out - or maybe in, she couldn’t tell - as a shower of glass shards quivered through the chamber, embedding themselves in anything that got in their way.
Escaping the worse of it, and knowing Morgana lacked the control to focus her power without her stave, Gwen darted over to the windowseat, throwing it open - as Morgana removed the sword from her belt - and pulled free her own blade.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Morgana smiled genuinely, now, turning the blade this way and that, letting it gleam in the sunlight. “And if you’re a good girl I’ll make it quick . . . if not relatively painless.” She started to step through the glass and Gwen jumped up and over the bed, before putting her back to the door and facing her.
“Go easy on me? We are family, after all,” Gwen taunted, feeling her blood pumping, for what felt like the first time in years.
Morgana tutted, carefully walking across the room, to Gwen. “Oh, my dear Guinevere, what would your poor father say if he could see you now?”
“Maybe if you hadn’t killed him we could have asked.”
The Queen laughed, causing Gwen’s hand to tighten around the hilt, her feet automatically moving into a fighting stance. “He was a silly man and you are his daughter in every way. I had hoped we could settle this quietly,” she said with a small shake of her head.
“Sorry, to disappoint you,” Gwen sighed. “Though, I suppose you’re used to it by now.”
Again the Queen laughed, eyes glinting like her weapon, her expression slightly mad. “Oh, you have no idea.” Her blade arced through the air.
Gwen parried Morgana’s sword, sending the blade wide, and snapped out her fist connecting with the Queen’s stomach with what she hoped was a bruising force, winding her, before darting away from the wild swing that followed.
She kept her feet moving. “Done a lot of reading over the years and I cannot remember the last time a crone won,” Gwen remarked, conversationally.
“Crone?” Morgana sneered.
“Yes, you’re passed your prime,” Gwen nodded. “Hadn’t you noticed? You have that big ol’ mirror in your room.”
“You dare-”
Gwen was ready for the swing, easily deflecting it and adding a blow of her own, catching Morgana’s shoulder with the blunt side of her sword. “Oh I dare,” she answered, her voice dangerously quiet. “Your exterior is beginning to match your shrivelled interior.”
A word of power burst from the Queen’s lips, but without the stave, the room was suddenly filled with a surging, untamed, wind that tore at the chamber and its contents. And both women were caught up in it.
Gwen tumbled up and through the now open doors, and into the hallway. Gasping she scrambled to her feet, sword still clutched tightly in her hand as she looked back at her Stepmother, slumped on the far side of the chamber.
She turned and ran, feet pounding down the stairs, past shaken looking servants.
Her decision had been made in a fraction of a moment, she’d always been able to count on having a clear head, on being able to weigh outcomes correctly . . . and watching Morgana struggle to right herself, robes disheveled, eyes wide and senseless she’d known.
It would have been suicide to stay.
Gwen had never taken a life and that’s what she would have been forced to do, this day, this moment, in order to protect herself.
To survive.
And she wasn’t ready.
But she vowed she would be when she returned.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Part 3 - is NOT 'Picnic' XD
Part 4 - IS Picnic
I'm chucking 'picnic' into the mix as Part 3 . . . and I can tell you right now it will be NOTHING like the person who prompted it would have imagined. 'Running' would suit as another part, but I already had plans for it, decisions decisions XD . . .
And to everyone who thought last chapters licking incident was gross blame mydoctortennant (who incidentally is more awesome now because she gave in to the USERPIC cult and got MOAH. Well, I don't think SHE thinks that's her reason, but I'm saying it is! So, ha! take that you :P) . . . she's always licking things and it brainwashed me.
I'm a helpless victim XD
Author: mustbethursday3
Prompt(s): #78, Duel for camelot_love's drabble part of Spring Fling. (prompt was originally for fanart)
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: 1370 ---Word limits and I are like oil and water . . . MESSY.
Summary: Morgana and Gwen have some mother/daughter time . . .
Author's notes: It's some weird retelling of Snow White that popped into my head. So, yeh, going to muddy up the waters of fairytaledom as much as possible . . . coz I can XD.
DON'T JUDGE ME ON MY RHYMING. PLEASE.
Part 1
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?
You my Queen are fair, it's true, but the beauty of Guinevere surpasses you . . .
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
In a week Gwen would be eighteen, and finally, she could petition for the crown, as rightful heir to the throne.
She didn’t doubt that the last six years would seem easy in comparison to the week, the lifetime - however short - she had before her . . .
She caught the transparent eyes watching her in the reflected surface of her dresser mirror, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t turn, as the Queen sent the servants from the room and proceeded to take over.
When those delicate hands begun deftly brushing her tresses, almost kindly, Gwen wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
The woman had spent the last six years becoming an authority at ignoring her, until Gwen had begun to wonder at her own existence, had to continually check that she was still there by pinching herself. Always hoping that it was a nightmare.
That perhaps, she had gone mad in her sleep and it would be over soon, her father waking her, and gently smoothing the hair from her face as he informed her of the adventures they would have . . . just as soon as the Kingdom calmed down, when they could run away for a few days, a week . . . just the two of them.
Just Tom and Gwen.
Father and Daughter.
Vagabonds with the stars.
She may have fallen far from those days, but owed herself those small moments to wonder what if . . . just to keep sane in the sea of madness around her.
“You seem to grow more beautiful with every passing moment,” Morgana murmured, twisting Gwen’s hair into a tight braid, before producing a clip and fastening it.
It shone bright and gold, contrasting brilliantly against the ebony of Gwen’s curls, she turned her head to see it better, and feeling the cool metal against her scalp, instinctively reached up for it.
“Thank you,” Gwen replied, routinely. It had been made clear to her that it was best to accept compliments, rather then challenge them.
A fall down the stairs at thirteen . . . a snake in her boot at fourteen . . . and at fifteen poisonous spiders had made their home above her bed overnight . . . all mysterious, unexplained, unconnected.
Except for the fights she’d had with her stepmother previous to each event.
From the glances she’d caught passing between the servants, hell, the nobles, she’d known they had all come to the same silent conclusion.
Morgana batted her hand away with a smile - it was lukewarm at best, but a feat indeed for one who rarely did so - and pulled Gwen’s chair out, urging her up. “Now, now, don’t ruin my good work, or I shall be cross,” she chastised, lightly.
Gwen stood, slowly, with a patience that could only be earned from many years of suffering, and looked at the woman before her. At the gradually appearing lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, the softening of her cheekbones, the thinning of her lips - time and stress had weathered Morgana since their first meeting.
And thinking of it, of her father, suddenly Gwen could not hold her temper, could not silence herself.
“You have grown old, stepmother. Every day is clear upon your face for all to see.”
She caught the wrist of the hand that would have struck her, her reflexes not slowed from ill use, holding Morgana’s abruptly stormy eyes with the calm of someone dealing with an unruly child.
“I think you must be overexcited by your approaching day,” the older woman grit out, just short of spitting. That would have been unladylike. “You are eager to receive your gifts?”
Gwen smiled warmly. “I mean to claim the throne and then you shall be thrown out. Forgotten. Wiped from our histories.” She pushed the Queen’s arm down, to her side and let it go. “Your name shall never be spoken within these walls.”
Gwen was ready when Morgana reached for the stave leaning against the wall, ripping it from pale fingers and throwing it as hard as she could. It flew through the air, and by chance, out through the open window and presumably onto the roof somewhere.
“I must insist upon equal footing,” Gwen said, raising her eyebrows, as Morgana turned from the window to glare malevolently at her. “This is more important than tricks.”
She saw the sorceress’s lips move silently and ducked, covering her head as the windows blew out - or maybe in, she couldn’t tell - as a shower of glass shards quivered through the chamber, embedding themselves in anything that got in their way.
Escaping the worse of it, and knowing Morgana lacked the control to focus her power without her stave, Gwen darted over to the windowseat, throwing it open - as Morgana removed the sword from her belt - and pulled free her own blade.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Morgana smiled genuinely, now, turning the blade this way and that, letting it gleam in the sunlight. “And if you’re a good girl I’ll make it quick . . . if not relatively painless.” She started to step through the glass and Gwen jumped up and over the bed, before putting her back to the door and facing her.
“Go easy on me? We are family, after all,” Gwen taunted, feeling her blood pumping, for what felt like the first time in years.
Morgana tutted, carefully walking across the room, to Gwen. “Oh, my dear Guinevere, what would your poor father say if he could see you now?”
“Maybe if you hadn’t killed him we could have asked.”
The Queen laughed, causing Gwen’s hand to tighten around the hilt, her feet automatically moving into a fighting stance. “He was a silly man and you are his daughter in every way. I had hoped we could settle this quietly,” she said with a small shake of her head.
“Sorry, to disappoint you,” Gwen sighed. “Though, I suppose you’re used to it by now.”
Again the Queen laughed, eyes glinting like her weapon, her expression slightly mad. “Oh, you have no idea.” Her blade arced through the air.
Gwen parried Morgana’s sword, sending the blade wide, and snapped out her fist connecting with the Queen’s stomach with what she hoped was a bruising force, winding her, before darting away from the wild swing that followed.
She kept her feet moving. “Done a lot of reading over the years and I cannot remember the last time a crone won,” Gwen remarked, conversationally.
“Crone?” Morgana sneered.
“Yes, you’re passed your prime,” Gwen nodded. “Hadn’t you noticed? You have that big ol’ mirror in your room.”
“You dare-”
Gwen was ready for the swing, easily deflecting it and adding a blow of her own, catching Morgana’s shoulder with the blunt side of her sword. “Oh I dare,” she answered, her voice dangerously quiet. “Your exterior is beginning to match your shrivelled interior.”
A word of power burst from the Queen’s lips, but without the stave, the room was suddenly filled with a surging, untamed, wind that tore at the chamber and its contents. And both women were caught up in it.
Gwen tumbled up and through the now open doors, and into the hallway. Gasping she scrambled to her feet, sword still clutched tightly in her hand as she looked back at her Stepmother, slumped on the far side of the chamber.
She turned and ran, feet pounding down the stairs, past shaken looking servants.
Her decision had been made in a fraction of a moment, she’d always been able to count on having a clear head, on being able to weigh outcomes correctly . . . and watching Morgana struggle to right herself, robes disheveled, eyes wide and senseless she’d known.
It would have been suicide to stay.
Gwen had never taken a life and that’s what she would have been forced to do, this day, this moment, in order to protect herself.
To survive.
And she wasn’t ready.
But she vowed she would be when she returned.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Part 3 - is NOT 'Picnic' XD
Part 4 - IS Picnic
I'm chucking 'picnic' into the mix as Part 3 . . . and I can tell you right now it will be NOTHING like the person who prompted it would have imagined. 'Running' would suit as another part, but I already had plans for it, decisions decisions XD . . .
And to everyone who thought last chapters licking incident was gross blame mydoctortennant (who incidentally is more awesome now because she gave in to the USERPIC cult and got MOAH. Well, I don't think SHE thinks that's her reason, but I'm saying it is! So, ha! take that you :P) . . . she's always licking things and it brainwashed me.
I'm a helpless victim XD