Arthur/Morgana: Dance
Beta'd by the wonderful otempora42! For all my Gen and other pairings you wouldn't have guessed that my OTP was A/Mo x) (Except that they seem to creep into my fics a lot :x) So a little fic based on the prompt "Dance" which took on a life of its own really and grew into something bigger :) Hope you enjoy!
Prompt "dance"
Title Dance
Rating PG
Genre Romance
Pairing Arthur/Morgana
Supporting characters Uther, Merlin, cameos from King Lot and his queen Anna
Word count ~3800
Summary Arthur really doesn't want to dance with Morgana, and finds out some home truths.
Dance
“I don’t dance,” said Arthur automatically as Morgana sifted through her various jewels. His figure, sprawled on one of Morgana’s chairs, suddenly tensed. Morgana had her back to him and did not notice.
“Is that supposed to deter me in any way?” asks Morgana, fishing a long emerald necklace from her jewellery box. “You seem competent enough with any other lady of the kingdom.”
“I don’t dance,” he repeated dumbly, because what he really wanted to say was with you and there was no way he was going to say that.
“How charming. Well, I’m afraid that in this circumstance you have no choice. Your father demands it.”
Those magical words your father which could make Arthur leap to the ends of the world. He watches Morgana dangle the chain about her neck, admiring the effect in a mirror, as the truth of her words sank in. His duty was to do whatever his father bid, however superficial and irritating. It was at times like these which made him wish he was not crown prince. He would not regret thinking that the peasants must lead far simpler lives than he did, however hypocritical that might sound.
“Well? Have you nothing to say?” Morgana turned, the necklace clasped to her throat. “Tell me at least what you think of this.”
“It looks fine,” he says, because her neckline is low and he is just starting to come to terms to the fact that Morgana is, frankly, desirable and he had no wish to complete that process just here. Avoiding unpleasant feelings was after all what Arthur did best.
She waves his opinion away as if she had never sought it in the first place, which is something they did a lot to each other these days, only not always about such trivial a matter. “It doesn’t go with my hair,” she says firmly. “Perhaps just silver.”
“Why you?” he blurts out, and he backpedals, trying to sound confused rather than annoyed. “There are many ladies in the court, wouldn’t any of them-?”
“I daresay many would gloat at the thought of hanging on your arm,” replies Morgana, now choosing earrings, “but tonight we-the prince and ward of Camelot-are to host the harvest feast.”
“The harvest feast happens every year,” said Arthur, ploughing on stubbornly, “and not once have I had to dance with you!”
“That’s because we have royal guests tonight,” says Morgana patiently, now picking up the dress Gwen had laid out for her and heading for the screen. “Now be quiet, I need to see if this all goes together.”
Still irritated (and feeling an uncomfortable knot tying in his stomach), Arthur rose and grabbed a goblet of wine. “It’s unlucky to see one’s dance partner before the dance,” he says firmly.
“Whoever said that?” says Morgana from behind the screen. As he turns to leave he tries to ignore the mental image of her hair on bare skin.
“I made it up. See you later.”
“Don’t be late,” were her last words to him as he closed the door.
*
“Not the red,” says Arthur as Merlin reaches for his jacket. Merlin stops, a little surprised, and actually drops the garment in his confusion. Arthur grits his teeth in half-hearted irritation, his mind elsewhere.
“That’s your only ceremonial jacket,” says Merlin, not bothering to retrieve it.
“I’m aware of that. Tonight isn’t a ceremony.”
Merlin blinks. “It isn’t?”
“I’ll wear my armour,” said Arthur in a tone that invited no argument.
“But royal guests are here tonight,” said Merlin, ignoring Arthur’s tone. “Everyone is wearing their ceremonial clothes.”
If Arthur had to pick one thing that was indescribably Merlin, it would be the fact that he offered his (uninformed) opinion at every turn, regardless of whether it was sought or not. “I’m going as a knight,” he says firmly. “Pass me my chain mail.”
“You’ll sweat to death,” says Merlin, but he complies all the same. “And you’ll be weighed down. How on earth will you dance with that cloak on?”
“I’m not dancing,” he lies for the thousandth time. “And my jacket is slowing gathering dust under my bed, Merlin. Seeing as you are responsible for cleaning it, I would recommend you to pick it up immediately.”
Merlin ignores Arthur’s recommendation. “And Morgana agrees with that?” he asks, while passing Arthur his tunic.
“I don’t care what Morgana thinks,” says Arthur in his biggest lie to date. “I can do what I like.”
Merlin’s brows knit. “But your father explicitly said you had to dance with Morgana.”
One day, thinks Arthur, just one day without being confronted about the things he was most reluctant to discuss. Was that too much to ask? “Cloak.”
“This won’t end well,” warns Merlin. “You should give up and start practising. Uther will kill you if you step on Morgana’s foot.”
“Pick up my jacket, Merlin,” says Arthur as he is about to leave.
“You forgot your crown.”
Arthur snatches it from Merlin hurriedly, laying it on his hair and not bothering to check what he looked like. “I’m serious, Merlin. When I come back I’d better be able to eat off the floor of this room.”
“Have a good night,” Merlin says, smiling, as the prince storms out.
Idiot, thinks Arthur.
*
“Enjoying the wine?” says Uther smoothly; Arthur jumps a little but disguises it as a cough. He notices that Uther had not touched any of the drinks himself, and a lifetime of watching out for Uther’s whims told him what to reply.
“It’s awful.”
“You’re right,” Uther says thoughtfully, “we’ll not to serve this to the King and Lady of Lot. I’ll see to it that the servants are punished as necessary.”
“It won’t be necessary, Father,” says Arthur hurriedly, but was prevented from receiving an answer by the arrival of King Lot and his wife Anna.
“Brother!” says Uther, and the men embrace, as Arthur and Anna look on awkwardly, slightly taken aback by such an uncharacteristic show of affection. “How do you do? You are very, and always welcome to Camelot.”
Lot was a bear of a man, luxuriant in hair and beard and clad in full armour. In contrast, his wife was small and slender, and frankly dwarfed by her husband’s size. She smiles at Arthur and proffers her hand.
“This is such an honour, Prince Arthur.”
“The honour is all mine, my Lady,” replies Arthur in the conventional form and kisses her hand.
Anna glances at Lot and Uther, who are now roaring with laughter at some joke. “They are very old friends, and they have not seen each other a long time. It made my husband very happy to learn that he would be coming here tonight.”
“I’m glad,” said Arthur, for lack of anything better to say. “Was the journey good?”
“Very uneventful,” replies Anna, “now that magic is forbidden in the land. It was swift and pleasant, I must say.”
“Is magic tolerated in your kingdom?”
“It is unwelcome, but we cannot help it. Has your harvest been good?”
“Surprisingly,” replies Arthur, casting his mind to the last two months. “We had one day of downpour and everyone was sure the harvest would be destroyed, but miraculously everything survived.”
“Lucky indeed,” says Anna. “I remember a year like that long ago; Uther bore it bravely but Igraine was very concerned. She wrote to me every day.”
Arthur was stunned for a moment, and Anna seems to reconsider what she has just said. “I’m very, very sorry about your mother,” she says softly.
“You knew her?” asks Arthur.
She laughs sadly. “Everyone knew Igraine, but we were close friends, siblings almost.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say. “I never really knew her,” he says.
Anna looks at him sadly. “The cruellest irony. But she would have loved this.”
She turns to look around, and Arthur follows her movement, his mind empty and yet heavy. He looks about the mass of moving faces, all, he realises, unknown to him. Then he feels the small warmth of Anna’s hand on his arm.
“Who is that?” she asks.
He looks in her direction, and sure enough it was Morgana. He nearly didn’t recognise her: she was a sublime angel in the fire-lit hall far too beautiful to belong to this world. He tasted the beauty on his tongue, and it was bittersweet, empty, hopeless.
“Morgana,” he tells her. Too late, he forgets her title and epithet, but Anna does not seem to notice.
“Bright as the stars themselves,” she whispers. “I once knew a sorceress of great beauty, and she glowed just like her.”
“Does she still glow now?” asks Arthur dryly.
Anna is silent for a moment as the full, shattering consequences of both their words were heard. “Not anymore,” she says.
They both watch as Morgana graciously acquiesces to a nobleman. Her beauty was out of this world… Arthur puts his glass down and kisses Anna’s hand without letting his eyes leave Morgana.
“I must take your leave,” he says. He does not linger to hear Anna’s reply.
“Arthur,” says Morgana as he approaches. She smiles and somehow she looks no different than any other day; her cheeks are perhaps a little rosier from the warmth and she is wearing a white dress that Arthur has never seen before, but that was all. So why could he not take his eyes off her?
“My lady,” he says, not bothering with any other formalities.
“Is something wrong?” asks Morgana, and Anna is right: she shines. She lights up the whole room. But no one else seems to notice.
You’re glowing isn’t an appropriate answer. Instead, he says, “I can’t dance in this armour. I’d look a fool.”
“Feel free to back out,” replies Morgana, “but I will be sure to be in the room when Uther starts with you. The gods know I need some light entertainment.”
Arthur grits his teeth. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I?” Morgana arches an eyebrow. “You seem to be under the impression that all this is my fault when, remember, I am simply a penniless orphan at the mercy of the Pendragons. If you must complain, please do so to someone who can do something about your situation.”
He hates it when she reminds him of how much she depends on him, when everything she does is to show him that was not the case. “I’m having a bad day, Morgana, and I really don’t feel like tripping over my cloak.”
“A bad day? I’ve had a bad week; but who cares about a foolish woman?” she smiles. “Your bad day seems to have impaired your judgement. What on earth led you to choose this attire?”
“I show respect for visiting dignitaries,” points out Arthur, showing King Lot with a wave of his hand.
“I see,” says Morgana slowly. “And he is a prodigious dancer, yes?”
“Can we stop talking about the dance?”
“Then speak to your father; I wish simply to know whether you have the guts to stand up to him in public.”
“It is not about guts!” cries Arthur. “You have no idea; this is duty, however inconvenient I may find it!”
“I know very well,” snaps Morgana, eyes flashing. “I lost my father to duty. I see sorcerers beheaded every day because it is Uther’s duty. Duty is a word that cowards hide behind, because they cannot face the truth!”
“There is no truth, only what is right,” growls Arthur, “and your father died for what is right.”
“And your mother,” says Morgana rashly, “did she die because it was her duty, too? To produce an heir?”
“Do not bring her into this, Morgana!” Arthur’s voice was high with warning.
“She has everything to do with this; Arthur, one day you will die for your duty, and I cannot let history repeat itself. This path has no future, can’t you see that? Everyone deserves life, everyone deserves freedom!”
Arthur shakes his head. “I know that. You think I am powerful, that I am free? I do as I am bid, because I must, and I cannot do anything about how magic is treated in Camelot. In that I am no freer than you are.”
“You are bound because you let it,” says Morgana softly. “I see the true king, and it is not Uther. Arthur,” she whispers, touching his face. “No one can break you, and no one can chain you. Not for long. You are the creature of legend.”
He takes her hand away. “You speak like a prophet,” he says. “Have you been examining animal entrails?”
Something flashes in her eyes, too fast for him to see. “Trust me, Arthur. Your time is coming, and this is just the start of it.” Her gaze burns, his mind is on fire. “Dance with me.”
He draws close to her, ignoring the fact that they were in the middle of a packed hall. The babble of voices and soft clink of goblets fade in her presence. She lifts her face and for a single, perfect moment is the picture of limitless hope. He touches her hair, pushes it away from her face. Her skin is warm beneath his touch, and touch was all he wanted. He is so close he can hear her heartbeat, the steady pulse of her life in rhythm with his own.
“Sorceress,” he says, a wild guess. He wasn’t even completely sure himself why it slipped from his tongue in the first place. On the minuscule off-chance that he was right, she would deny it, and he would believe her, and life would move on. Perhaps there was a part of his mind that was hoping that was what would happen; that she would prove him wrong. That she would slap him indignantly and refuse to let him live it down for a week.
She looks at him with open, honest, deadly eyes. A lot pass between them in that moment, and Arthur realises that he was right-that Anna was right. A lead weight falls in the pit of his stomach. “My champion.”
He ploughed on to hide just how much this was throwing him off-balance. “When were you going to tell me?” he asks.
“Never,” she replies.
“You let me find out.”
She laughs. “I don’t let you do anything.”
He backs away. She is so beautiful… all he wants is to be away from her. He can’t bring himself to look at her, not at her perfect blank face. For once in his life he has two different duties, and he will have to choose. What did Morgana say? One day you will die for your duty. How soon?
He can’t stay in her presence any longer, and turns his back on her and her kind.
*
When she comes to his room later on the first words from her mouth are, “Will you tell?”
It is also the most useless question because there was no force on earth or heaven that would make him reply yes. “Of course not, Morgana.” He is weary and tired and old, despite the reflection on his cutlery showing him a man at the prime of his life. There are wrinkles, not on his face but in his map of the world as he sees it. Every day it creases a little more, every day he finds a new hole, and soon it will shrivel and disappear altogether, he was sure. His body may be strong but his heart is weak, and he does not know how much more he can take.
“There is no of course anymore, Arthur,” says Morgana, coming to stand at the side of the table at which he was sat. “There is no certainty; there is no Arthur would never do this. When you were little there was such a concrete sense of right and wrong; but now you’re in between, not little Arthur and not the king I see, and I don’t know who you are.”
“I could say the same about you,” replies Arthur. “First you’re Morgana, then now you’re this… woman, that I don’t recognise. This enchantress. This magical being; and all my life I’ve known you, and all my life I’ve known that magic is evil. But still I chose. Are you happy now?”
A smile graces her lips. “Like I said, it all starts now. Arthur,” she adds, sitting down, and he looks at the beautiful face that he has no idea where he has seen before. “I’m not a sorceress. I see things… in my dreams. Magic, that’s different. I have no affinity with it, no wish to practise it.”
“You think that makes things better?” he asks. “Do you think things like that matter to Uther? All that matters is that you were born like that, and you can’t reject it.”
Her eyes flash. “Yes, I am of different kin than you. But everyone has a choice, even me. And I choose no. It’s not my path to tread. Don’t you think that I have not enough power as it is, to see the fates of others? To act you must see, and I See. Do you think I need to meddle with magic to bring things about as I like?”
Arthur shakes his head, cradles it in his palms. His eyes are sore. Even at this moment, the first crossroads of many, he could still appreciate her arrogance. This was given to her so that she could bring things about as she liked. Some things never changed. The fact that Uther was going to rage at him tomorrow is at the back of his mind now, with Morgana in front of him. Everything else seemed so tiny and insignificant compared to this new development, this giant rip which threatened to tear his map in two. “I won’t tell anyone. What else do you want?”
She is close now, he can feel her warmth around him, like his own safe bubble. He raises his head to look at her, wearily, but she seems to bring energy to him. She was hope: she had seen what he would turn into, and it was like a new life had taken him.
“I want you to be safe,” she says. “I need you to stay safe. I’m still Morgana, Arthur. Do you want me here with you?”
He doesn’t know what to say. Every fibre of his body is yearning for her but he knows it cannot be. Not after this; not now he knows what she is. And what is that? She is not evil, not a threat to the kingdom. She is his Morgana. Yet she is not. He sighs and she draws away a little. Her skin glows in the firelight; did she see this, too?
“For as long as you can,” he says.
“As long as I can,” she repeats, and smiles. “I think I can manage that.”
“Morgana,” he says, “you know I’ll be safe. I’ll always be safe.”
“Yes,” she says, and there is something in her voice which he doesn’t catch. “Always.”
“Dance with me?” he offers.
“How can I resist?”
They rise and she fits against him, her head on his chest. He winds his hands around her waist, and she puts hers on his arms, keeping him there. She is not wearing her cumbersome white gown but a functional velvet shift over one of her looser dresses. He places his cheek on the top of her head, and they rock slowly, content in the equilibrium they had achieved. It feels so natural to have her here, close to him, and so soft and warm that he is sure that nothing could ever pull them apart.
“Where’s Merlin?” she asks after a little while.
Arthur considers. “Probably drunk as a sailor and gallivanting with maids.”
“He is charming,” she says. “Very naturally charismatic.”
“Then he’s like me,” jokes Arthur, and she laughs quietly.
“I hope you appreciate what he does for you,” says Morgana.
“The cleaning? He does that slower and sloppier than any manservant I have ever known.”
“Yet you tolerate it.”
Arthur shrugs. “I’m big of heart.”
“He helps you more than you can know,” offers Morgana, “and one day you will truly appreciate what he did for you.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“How much does it bother you that I’m magical?” she asks very softly.
He wants to say not at all, but can’t quite manage it. “I’m a little surprised. You could have told me.”
He can feel the imprint of her smile through his tunic. “You know I couldn’t. I was more frightened of it than you are.”
“I would have listened.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I was always worried about your dreams,” he says. “There was something wrong with you and I didn’t like it. It scared me too, Morgana.”
“I’m sorry for that. But that time’s past. I’m not afraid anymore. The dreams… they can help people. Help Camelot.” A pause. “Will you let me do that?”
He strokes her hair. “You know the answer to that.”
“Yes,” she replies. “Thankfully I do.”
“Those times you’ve tried to warn me,” he says, reminiscing now. “You saw the questing beast?”
“That and more,” sighs Morgana. “Those nights were not so pleasant.”
“I didn’t listen to you.”
“No one did,” she reminds him.
“I should have.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “But it worked out all right in the end.”
“What else do you see?” he asks, afraid of what he might hear, but wanting to halve her burden. Anything to help, now that he knew what was wrong.
“I saw you and Sophia,” she whispers, and strokes his face. “Do you remember? Do you remember those few days?”
He thinks he might be starting to, now that she is speaking about it. “You saw her?”
She nods. “The day before you met her.”
“I’m sorry. I should have listened.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
“Don’t make excuses for me. All this is my fault.”
“Then aren’t we lucky that all the bad things I see tend to befall you?”
He smiles, half-heartedly. “You said you had a bad week. What was it?”
“Not much.” When he looks at her insistently she adds, “Dreams.”
“Can you tell me-?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she says. “This is one part of me that no one else can share. I’m sorry.”
“All I want is to help you.”
“And you do. Just respect that. I would tell you without a care if I could.”
“You tried to warn me about the questing beast.”
“You didn’t listen. There was a reason for that; that was fate. No one can change it. Perhaps, if I told you, I would bring those things to pass.” She shrugs. “I just accept that things will be all right. Obstacles, they are only temporary, like everything else. They pass, they are overcome, sometimes they dissolve of their own volition.”
“What if you’re bringing it to pass because you didn’t tell me?”
She smiles. “You’re thinking too much.”
“It would be fate, right?” he sighs, holding her close to him.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Tell me one thing,” he says, and asks before she can deny him. “Do I have a good fate?”
She looks at him fondly. “The best,” she says.
I hope it was good xD Please comment and crit!
Prompt "dance"
Title Dance
Rating PG
Genre Romance
Pairing Arthur/Morgana
Supporting characters Uther, Merlin, cameos from King Lot and his queen Anna
Word count ~3800
Summary Arthur really doesn't want to dance with Morgana, and finds out some home truths.
Dance
“I don’t dance,” said Arthur automatically as Morgana sifted through her various jewels. His figure, sprawled on one of Morgana’s chairs, suddenly tensed. Morgana had her back to him and did not notice.
“Is that supposed to deter me in any way?” asks Morgana, fishing a long emerald necklace from her jewellery box. “You seem competent enough with any other lady of the kingdom.”
“I don’t dance,” he repeated dumbly, because what he really wanted to say was with you and there was no way he was going to say that.
“How charming. Well, I’m afraid that in this circumstance you have no choice. Your father demands it.”
Those magical words your father which could make Arthur leap to the ends of the world. He watches Morgana dangle the chain about her neck, admiring the effect in a mirror, as the truth of her words sank in. His duty was to do whatever his father bid, however superficial and irritating. It was at times like these which made him wish he was not crown prince. He would not regret thinking that the peasants must lead far simpler lives than he did, however hypocritical that might sound.
“Well? Have you nothing to say?” Morgana turned, the necklace clasped to her throat. “Tell me at least what you think of this.”
“It looks fine,” he says, because her neckline is low and he is just starting to come to terms to the fact that Morgana is, frankly, desirable and he had no wish to complete that process just here. Avoiding unpleasant feelings was after all what Arthur did best.
She waves his opinion away as if she had never sought it in the first place, which is something they did a lot to each other these days, only not always about such trivial a matter. “It doesn’t go with my hair,” she says firmly. “Perhaps just silver.”
“Why you?” he blurts out, and he backpedals, trying to sound confused rather than annoyed. “There are many ladies in the court, wouldn’t any of them-?”
“I daresay many would gloat at the thought of hanging on your arm,” replies Morgana, now choosing earrings, “but tonight we-the prince and ward of Camelot-are to host the harvest feast.”
“The harvest feast happens every year,” said Arthur, ploughing on stubbornly, “and not once have I had to dance with you!”
“That’s because we have royal guests tonight,” says Morgana patiently, now picking up the dress Gwen had laid out for her and heading for the screen. “Now be quiet, I need to see if this all goes together.”
Still irritated (and feeling an uncomfortable knot tying in his stomach), Arthur rose and grabbed a goblet of wine. “It’s unlucky to see one’s dance partner before the dance,” he says firmly.
“Whoever said that?” says Morgana from behind the screen. As he turns to leave he tries to ignore the mental image of her hair on bare skin.
“I made it up. See you later.”
“Don’t be late,” were her last words to him as he closed the door.
*
“Not the red,” says Arthur as Merlin reaches for his jacket. Merlin stops, a little surprised, and actually drops the garment in his confusion. Arthur grits his teeth in half-hearted irritation, his mind elsewhere.
“That’s your only ceremonial jacket,” says Merlin, not bothering to retrieve it.
“I’m aware of that. Tonight isn’t a ceremony.”
Merlin blinks. “It isn’t?”
“I’ll wear my armour,” said Arthur in a tone that invited no argument.
“But royal guests are here tonight,” said Merlin, ignoring Arthur’s tone. “Everyone is wearing their ceremonial clothes.”
If Arthur had to pick one thing that was indescribably Merlin, it would be the fact that he offered his (uninformed) opinion at every turn, regardless of whether it was sought or not. “I’m going as a knight,” he says firmly. “Pass me my chain mail.”
“You’ll sweat to death,” says Merlin, but he complies all the same. “And you’ll be weighed down. How on earth will you dance with that cloak on?”
“I’m not dancing,” he lies for the thousandth time. “And my jacket is slowing gathering dust under my bed, Merlin. Seeing as you are responsible for cleaning it, I would recommend you to pick it up immediately.”
Merlin ignores Arthur’s recommendation. “And Morgana agrees with that?” he asks, while passing Arthur his tunic.
“I don’t care what Morgana thinks,” says Arthur in his biggest lie to date. “I can do what I like.”
Merlin’s brows knit. “But your father explicitly said you had to dance with Morgana.”
One day, thinks Arthur, just one day without being confronted about the things he was most reluctant to discuss. Was that too much to ask? “Cloak.”
“This won’t end well,” warns Merlin. “You should give up and start practising. Uther will kill you if you step on Morgana’s foot.”
“Pick up my jacket, Merlin,” says Arthur as he is about to leave.
“You forgot your crown.”
Arthur snatches it from Merlin hurriedly, laying it on his hair and not bothering to check what he looked like. “I’m serious, Merlin. When I come back I’d better be able to eat off the floor of this room.”
“Have a good night,” Merlin says, smiling, as the prince storms out.
Idiot, thinks Arthur.
*
“Enjoying the wine?” says Uther smoothly; Arthur jumps a little but disguises it as a cough. He notices that Uther had not touched any of the drinks himself, and a lifetime of watching out for Uther’s whims told him what to reply.
“It’s awful.”
“You’re right,” Uther says thoughtfully, “we’ll not to serve this to the King and Lady of Lot. I’ll see to it that the servants are punished as necessary.”
“It won’t be necessary, Father,” says Arthur hurriedly, but was prevented from receiving an answer by the arrival of King Lot and his wife Anna.
“Brother!” says Uther, and the men embrace, as Arthur and Anna look on awkwardly, slightly taken aback by such an uncharacteristic show of affection. “How do you do? You are very, and always welcome to Camelot.”
Lot was a bear of a man, luxuriant in hair and beard and clad in full armour. In contrast, his wife was small and slender, and frankly dwarfed by her husband’s size. She smiles at Arthur and proffers her hand.
“This is such an honour, Prince Arthur.”
“The honour is all mine, my Lady,” replies Arthur in the conventional form and kisses her hand.
Anna glances at Lot and Uther, who are now roaring with laughter at some joke. “They are very old friends, and they have not seen each other a long time. It made my husband very happy to learn that he would be coming here tonight.”
“I’m glad,” said Arthur, for lack of anything better to say. “Was the journey good?”
“Very uneventful,” replies Anna, “now that magic is forbidden in the land. It was swift and pleasant, I must say.”
“Is magic tolerated in your kingdom?”
“It is unwelcome, but we cannot help it. Has your harvest been good?”
“Surprisingly,” replies Arthur, casting his mind to the last two months. “We had one day of downpour and everyone was sure the harvest would be destroyed, but miraculously everything survived.”
“Lucky indeed,” says Anna. “I remember a year like that long ago; Uther bore it bravely but Igraine was very concerned. She wrote to me every day.”
Arthur was stunned for a moment, and Anna seems to reconsider what she has just said. “I’m very, very sorry about your mother,” she says softly.
“You knew her?” asks Arthur.
She laughs sadly. “Everyone knew Igraine, but we were close friends, siblings almost.”
Arthur doesn’t know what to say. “I never really knew her,” he says.
Anna looks at him sadly. “The cruellest irony. But she would have loved this.”
She turns to look around, and Arthur follows her movement, his mind empty and yet heavy. He looks about the mass of moving faces, all, he realises, unknown to him. Then he feels the small warmth of Anna’s hand on his arm.
“Who is that?” she asks.
He looks in her direction, and sure enough it was Morgana. He nearly didn’t recognise her: she was a sublime angel in the fire-lit hall far too beautiful to belong to this world. He tasted the beauty on his tongue, and it was bittersweet, empty, hopeless.
“Morgana,” he tells her. Too late, he forgets her title and epithet, but Anna does not seem to notice.
“Bright as the stars themselves,” she whispers. “I once knew a sorceress of great beauty, and she glowed just like her.”
“Does she still glow now?” asks Arthur dryly.
Anna is silent for a moment as the full, shattering consequences of both their words were heard. “Not anymore,” she says.
They both watch as Morgana graciously acquiesces to a nobleman. Her beauty was out of this world… Arthur puts his glass down and kisses Anna’s hand without letting his eyes leave Morgana.
“I must take your leave,” he says. He does not linger to hear Anna’s reply.
“Arthur,” says Morgana as he approaches. She smiles and somehow she looks no different than any other day; her cheeks are perhaps a little rosier from the warmth and she is wearing a white dress that Arthur has never seen before, but that was all. So why could he not take his eyes off her?
“My lady,” he says, not bothering with any other formalities.
“Is something wrong?” asks Morgana, and Anna is right: she shines. She lights up the whole room. But no one else seems to notice.
You’re glowing isn’t an appropriate answer. Instead, he says, “I can’t dance in this armour. I’d look a fool.”
“Feel free to back out,” replies Morgana, “but I will be sure to be in the room when Uther starts with you. The gods know I need some light entertainment.”
Arthur grits his teeth. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I?” Morgana arches an eyebrow. “You seem to be under the impression that all this is my fault when, remember, I am simply a penniless orphan at the mercy of the Pendragons. If you must complain, please do so to someone who can do something about your situation.”
He hates it when she reminds him of how much she depends on him, when everything she does is to show him that was not the case. “I’m having a bad day, Morgana, and I really don’t feel like tripping over my cloak.”
“A bad day? I’ve had a bad week; but who cares about a foolish woman?” she smiles. “Your bad day seems to have impaired your judgement. What on earth led you to choose this attire?”
“I show respect for visiting dignitaries,” points out Arthur, showing King Lot with a wave of his hand.
“I see,” says Morgana slowly. “And he is a prodigious dancer, yes?”
“Can we stop talking about the dance?”
“Then speak to your father; I wish simply to know whether you have the guts to stand up to him in public.”
“It is not about guts!” cries Arthur. “You have no idea; this is duty, however inconvenient I may find it!”
“I know very well,” snaps Morgana, eyes flashing. “I lost my father to duty. I see sorcerers beheaded every day because it is Uther’s duty. Duty is a word that cowards hide behind, because they cannot face the truth!”
“There is no truth, only what is right,” growls Arthur, “and your father died for what is right.”
“And your mother,” says Morgana rashly, “did she die because it was her duty, too? To produce an heir?”
“Do not bring her into this, Morgana!” Arthur’s voice was high with warning.
“She has everything to do with this; Arthur, one day you will die for your duty, and I cannot let history repeat itself. This path has no future, can’t you see that? Everyone deserves life, everyone deserves freedom!”
Arthur shakes his head. “I know that. You think I am powerful, that I am free? I do as I am bid, because I must, and I cannot do anything about how magic is treated in Camelot. In that I am no freer than you are.”
“You are bound because you let it,” says Morgana softly. “I see the true king, and it is not Uther. Arthur,” she whispers, touching his face. “No one can break you, and no one can chain you. Not for long. You are the creature of legend.”
He takes her hand away. “You speak like a prophet,” he says. “Have you been examining animal entrails?”
Something flashes in her eyes, too fast for him to see. “Trust me, Arthur. Your time is coming, and this is just the start of it.” Her gaze burns, his mind is on fire. “Dance with me.”
He draws close to her, ignoring the fact that they were in the middle of a packed hall. The babble of voices and soft clink of goblets fade in her presence. She lifts her face and for a single, perfect moment is the picture of limitless hope. He touches her hair, pushes it away from her face. Her skin is warm beneath his touch, and touch was all he wanted. He is so close he can hear her heartbeat, the steady pulse of her life in rhythm with his own.
“Sorceress,” he says, a wild guess. He wasn’t even completely sure himself why it slipped from his tongue in the first place. On the minuscule off-chance that he was right, she would deny it, and he would believe her, and life would move on. Perhaps there was a part of his mind that was hoping that was what would happen; that she would prove him wrong. That she would slap him indignantly and refuse to let him live it down for a week.
She looks at him with open, honest, deadly eyes. A lot pass between them in that moment, and Arthur realises that he was right-that Anna was right. A lead weight falls in the pit of his stomach. “My champion.”
He ploughed on to hide just how much this was throwing him off-balance. “When were you going to tell me?” he asks.
“Never,” she replies.
“You let me find out.”
She laughs. “I don’t let you do anything.”
He backs away. She is so beautiful… all he wants is to be away from her. He can’t bring himself to look at her, not at her perfect blank face. For once in his life he has two different duties, and he will have to choose. What did Morgana say? One day you will die for your duty. How soon?
He can’t stay in her presence any longer, and turns his back on her and her kind.
*
When she comes to his room later on the first words from her mouth are, “Will you tell?”
It is also the most useless question because there was no force on earth or heaven that would make him reply yes. “Of course not, Morgana.” He is weary and tired and old, despite the reflection on his cutlery showing him a man at the prime of his life. There are wrinkles, not on his face but in his map of the world as he sees it. Every day it creases a little more, every day he finds a new hole, and soon it will shrivel and disappear altogether, he was sure. His body may be strong but his heart is weak, and he does not know how much more he can take.
“There is no of course anymore, Arthur,” says Morgana, coming to stand at the side of the table at which he was sat. “There is no certainty; there is no Arthur would never do this. When you were little there was such a concrete sense of right and wrong; but now you’re in between, not little Arthur and not the king I see, and I don’t know who you are.”
“I could say the same about you,” replies Arthur. “First you’re Morgana, then now you’re this… woman, that I don’t recognise. This enchantress. This magical being; and all my life I’ve known you, and all my life I’ve known that magic is evil. But still I chose. Are you happy now?”
A smile graces her lips. “Like I said, it all starts now. Arthur,” she adds, sitting down, and he looks at the beautiful face that he has no idea where he has seen before. “I’m not a sorceress. I see things… in my dreams. Magic, that’s different. I have no affinity with it, no wish to practise it.”
“You think that makes things better?” he asks. “Do you think things like that matter to Uther? All that matters is that you were born like that, and you can’t reject it.”
Her eyes flash. “Yes, I am of different kin than you. But everyone has a choice, even me. And I choose no. It’s not my path to tread. Don’t you think that I have not enough power as it is, to see the fates of others? To act you must see, and I See. Do you think I need to meddle with magic to bring things about as I like?”
Arthur shakes his head, cradles it in his palms. His eyes are sore. Even at this moment, the first crossroads of many, he could still appreciate her arrogance. This was given to her so that she could bring things about as she liked. Some things never changed. The fact that Uther was going to rage at him tomorrow is at the back of his mind now, with Morgana in front of him. Everything else seemed so tiny and insignificant compared to this new development, this giant rip which threatened to tear his map in two. “I won’t tell anyone. What else do you want?”
She is close now, he can feel her warmth around him, like his own safe bubble. He raises his head to look at her, wearily, but she seems to bring energy to him. She was hope: she had seen what he would turn into, and it was like a new life had taken him.
“I want you to be safe,” she says. “I need you to stay safe. I’m still Morgana, Arthur. Do you want me here with you?”
He doesn’t know what to say. Every fibre of his body is yearning for her but he knows it cannot be. Not after this; not now he knows what she is. And what is that? She is not evil, not a threat to the kingdom. She is his Morgana. Yet she is not. He sighs and she draws away a little. Her skin glows in the firelight; did she see this, too?
“For as long as you can,” he says.
“As long as I can,” she repeats, and smiles. “I think I can manage that.”
“Morgana,” he says, “you know I’ll be safe. I’ll always be safe.”
“Yes,” she says, and there is something in her voice which he doesn’t catch. “Always.”
“Dance with me?” he offers.
“How can I resist?”
They rise and she fits against him, her head on his chest. He winds his hands around her waist, and she puts hers on his arms, keeping him there. She is not wearing her cumbersome white gown but a functional velvet shift over one of her looser dresses. He places his cheek on the top of her head, and they rock slowly, content in the equilibrium they had achieved. It feels so natural to have her here, close to him, and so soft and warm that he is sure that nothing could ever pull them apart.
“Where’s Merlin?” she asks after a little while.
Arthur considers. “Probably drunk as a sailor and gallivanting with maids.”
“He is charming,” she says. “Very naturally charismatic.”
“Then he’s like me,” jokes Arthur, and she laughs quietly.
“I hope you appreciate what he does for you,” says Morgana.
“The cleaning? He does that slower and sloppier than any manservant I have ever known.”
“Yet you tolerate it.”
Arthur shrugs. “I’m big of heart.”
“He helps you more than you can know,” offers Morgana, “and one day you will truly appreciate what he did for you.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“How much does it bother you that I’m magical?” she asks very softly.
He wants to say not at all, but can’t quite manage it. “I’m a little surprised. You could have told me.”
He can feel the imprint of her smile through his tunic. “You know I couldn’t. I was more frightened of it than you are.”
“I would have listened.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I was always worried about your dreams,” he says. “There was something wrong with you and I didn’t like it. It scared me too, Morgana.”
“I’m sorry for that. But that time’s past. I’m not afraid anymore. The dreams… they can help people. Help Camelot.” A pause. “Will you let me do that?”
He strokes her hair. “You know the answer to that.”
“Yes,” she replies. “Thankfully I do.”
“Those times you’ve tried to warn me,” he says, reminiscing now. “You saw the questing beast?”
“That and more,” sighs Morgana. “Those nights were not so pleasant.”
“I didn’t listen to you.”
“No one did,” she reminds him.
“I should have.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “But it worked out all right in the end.”
“What else do you see?” he asks, afraid of what he might hear, but wanting to halve her burden. Anything to help, now that he knew what was wrong.
“I saw you and Sophia,” she whispers, and strokes his face. “Do you remember? Do you remember those few days?”
He thinks he might be starting to, now that she is speaking about it. “You saw her?”
She nods. “The day before you met her.”
“I’m sorry. I should have listened.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
“Don’t make excuses for me. All this is my fault.”
“Then aren’t we lucky that all the bad things I see tend to befall you?”
He smiles, half-heartedly. “You said you had a bad week. What was it?”
“Not much.” When he looks at her insistently she adds, “Dreams.”
“Can you tell me-?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she says. “This is one part of me that no one else can share. I’m sorry.”
“All I want is to help you.”
“And you do. Just respect that. I would tell you without a care if I could.”
“You tried to warn me about the questing beast.”
“You didn’t listen. There was a reason for that; that was fate. No one can change it. Perhaps, if I told you, I would bring those things to pass.” She shrugs. “I just accept that things will be all right. Obstacles, they are only temporary, like everything else. They pass, they are overcome, sometimes they dissolve of their own volition.”
“What if you’re bringing it to pass because you didn’t tell me?”
She smiles. “You’re thinking too much.”
“It would be fate, right?” he sighs, holding her close to him.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Tell me one thing,” he says, and asks before she can deny him. “Do I have a good fate?”
She looks at him fondly. “The best,” she says.
I hope it was good xD Please comment and crit!