Fic: An Exercise in Politics 1/2
Title: An Exercise in Politics
Author: suaine
Fandom: Merlin
Pairings: Gwen/Morgana, Arthur/Merlin (background), past Morgana/other
Characters: Gwen, Morgana
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: past/off-screen abuse
Spoilers: general for the series
Betas: fay_morgenstern, staraflur, exoticrooftile
Summary: The death of a king upsets the precarious balance between the kingdoms of Albion, and suddenly Gwen has to be more than just queen.
Artwork: Beautiful cover art by reflectedeve
Author's Notes: Thanks to just about everyone who listened to me wail about this story. It wouldn't have happened without the support of my entire flist.
The chamber maid left with a curtsey, hurrying out of the royal quarters as if stung by a wasp. Gwen sighed and returned to her stitching. She'd been concentrating on a miniature Pendragon crest before the timid girl had approached her. She informed her that Arthur had requested Gwen's presence; and true to his nature he'd terrified the girl. Emma, who had started working for the court a year after the coronation. She wouldn't know any different.
Arthur had a reputation with the new maids, something more than human; revered and feared at the same time. Gwen put down the embroidery frame and frowned at the door. Arthur didn't just summon her like the servant she used to be. He'd always made a point to come himself to seek her out or in rare cases he would send Merlin.
Gwen trailed her fingers over the colourful threads of her unfinished work, the story of her life in tiny stitches, telling more of Arthur and his ascension to the throne than of anything she had ever done. The needlework had time, whatever Arthur needed from her was likely more important. Sometimes, she would let him wait, to remind the king of his human side. However, she knew well enough that few people accepted the rule and power of a mere mortal, so she stood with him when he needed it, a picture of royalty where the reality spoke of something else, but she served her purpose. She was, in her own way, protecting a friend, a loved one, and nothing else could measure up to that.
Calling for a maid to help her, Gwen walked toward her wardrobe and stared at the lavish, beautiful dresses. Her eyes fell on the dress her father had given her, paid for by Tauren's blood money - beautiful, so laced with tragedy that she'd never worn it. She'd felt tempted to wear it only once, when King Uther had finally succumbed to his wasting illness and Camelot had breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been an insult - granted, she would have been the only one who would have known - but Arthur's shuttered expression had stopped her, and instead she had worn the simple white of funeral garb for a week.
"My lady," the maid, Bran, announced her presence, and Gwen smiled at the girl.
"What do you think I should wear?"
Morgana had always asked her opinion, but none of her own maids seemed capable of ignoring her station. As if that station was anything worthy of such attentions, really, considering where she had come from. Considering Arthur's tendency to surround himself with people who had nothing but the clothes on their backs. Between her, Merlin and Lancelot, Arthur trusted those who'd grown up in hardship more than any Baron or Lord.
"I couldn't presume," Bran said, but her eyes were locked onto a dark silk dress with a low front.
Gwen smiled and pointed toward it. "That one might do nicely, don't you think?"
It took Bran little time to get Gwen all tied up in the bodice, quiet and invisible as a servant was supposed to be. It just reminded Gwen of all the times it had been different for her, all the times Morgana had laughed with her. It reminded her of the last time she'd ever done up the laces of a bodice herself, the day Morgana had left Camelot for good.
"Thank you," Gwen said. "I think I can do the rest myself. Please, take some time for yourself. I know the twins must miss you when you're here all the time." Bran blushed, and left the room with a hurried curtsey.
Gwen breathed once, hindered by the fabric of her dress, and stepped into the bustle of Camelot.
+
Gwen had been wet the first time they met, all over mud from playing in the puddles with Greg and the other children that lived in the neighbourhood. She was tall for her age - her father called her his blooming flower - and her dress was too short in the arms, and barely reached the upper curve of her shins. She liked to be pretty, liked to emulate the ladies of the court as they passed by on their horses, chins high and hair sparkling with gems. She had no gems, but she did have flowers, and Gregory always bowed low before her when she pretended to be a princess.
The Lady Morgana did not look like any of the courtiers Gwen had ever seen, long dark hair pulled into a harsh pony tail and wearing breeches and a tunic that would not be amiss on the prince. Her face was set in a fearsome expression, cold and hard, but there was something beneath that, something that made Gwen hold out her hand-
"Hi, I'm Gwen, the blacksmith's daughter."
Morgana looked at her own hand, the one that had a wooden practice sword in it, then at Gwen. She fumbled the sword into her left, almost dropping it, and reached out to grasp Gwen's hand in a warm grip.
+
Arthur had the kind of expression on his face that made decorated generals recoil in fear, a thunder cloud given human form. Gwen rolled her eyes at Merlin, who stood to the right of his king, always ready with a comment for Arthur's ear only. They worked well together in this as much as anything else. Sometimes Gwen envied them for their easy transition into these new roles, where she still floundered five years into being queen.
"Guinevere!" Arthur smiled, perhaps a little too bright to be believable. Something big was preying on his mind. Gwen walked up to them and took her place at his left side, the place Morgana had called her own until Uther had practically sold her for a treaty.
"My King," she said, eager to find out what he thought could not be done without her. Very few of the royal audiences ever required her presence, and often it was only Merlin's wry humour that kept her awake in council sessions. There was only so much a person could hear about grain distribution before the words lost all meaning.
A young boy stepped forward, no older than Lancelot's squire Galahad, and he looked at Arthur with such urgency that Gwen herself would have given him leave to speak, had Arthur not done so. "If you would tell the court what you've told Jeremy," Arthur said, "and don't leave anything out for fear of hurting anyone's sensibilities, the truth holds highest station in my kingdom." The boy spoke of a civil war in a northern kingdom, and something about the name struck Gwen as familiar. She waved Merlin to her side.
"Merlin," she said, hiding her mouth with a hand to preserve the illusion of attention, "have we had dealings with these people before?"
Merlin shook his head minutely. "Not since Arthur's been king, but I remember the name as well. I just can't put it together."
Arthur waved the boy off and adjourned the court, claiming a headache, which was unusual enough to spark a torrent of whispers. Gwen frowned at Arthur, but his face was as hard to read as the rune stones of an oracle.
"Come with me," Arthur said, as hard as any order he gave his knights, "both of you." He looked at Merlin, then at her, and there was something terrible just under the mask he wore for other people. Gwen hurried to keep up.
In his chambers, Arthur paced for a good minute before he seemed ready to speak through his anger. Since the wedding, Gwen had been living in a state of confusion about her relationship with the king, with Merlin, and her own place in Camelot, but she had never been afraid of Arthur. Never, not since before he almost died from the bite of the questing beast. She was afraid now.
"We can't send troops," Arthur said. "The treaties with Mercia would crumble into dust and we can't afford that, not now."
Merlin stoked the fire. He looked far more comfortable here than Gwen could ever feel in the role she'd stumbled into. Even though Arthur had turned out to be the kind of man who deserved the crown and everything to go with it, she still couldn't quite believe it when someone bowed before her - wearing her own crown felt like an ill-advised prank.
"We should be able to help people in need," Merlin said, "but we can't be there for everyone. What stake do we have in this?"
And just like that, with Arthur's face darkening, his anger boiling to the surface, Gwen remembered. The name of the king had been Cern and his toothless smile had only barely covered the sadistic core beneath. Morgana had been stoic, beautiful, and absolutely terrified.
"It's Morgana," Gwen said, shuddering with the memories. "It's where Cern took her when-" She couldn't say it out loud. Those days had cost them all, and it had started something between the three of them, the kind of bond that could support a greater kingdom than Uther or Cern could possibly imagine. It had come at the price of a life.
Merlin's hand came to rest on her shoulder, giving comfort as much as he took, squeezing just a little too hard. His words seemed to pierce Arthur like arrows, each one drawing blood. "We have to send troops, we can't let her... we just can't, alright?"
Arthur stood, arms crossed, the perfect picture of defensiveness. "From what the messenger told us, there is little hope. She would need an army to get her and the child out alive."
The world twisted and churned as Gwen realized, "Morgana has a son." She stumbled a little over the words, feeling them out and finding only ashes. She could imagine what that meant, and she hoped to the gods that it was a bastard child, that the king had never managed to lay a hand on Morgana before he'd died.
"He's the heir," Arthur said, grim and not meeting Gwen's eyes. "The barons will hunt them down and kill them both. Morgana and the boy are too much of a liability otherwise."
Gwen hated that Arthur could think like that, assessing the situation and coldly coming to the conclusion that their friend's life was forfeit because of Mercia's paranoia. Arthur seemed to take it hard enough, bound by his own helplessness, but Gwen resented him for taking the practical stance, just enough to birth an idea at the back of her mind.
"There has to be something we can do," she said, batting down the plan that began forming with the knowledge that it was insanity to try. Merlin's hand tightened on her shoulder, and at any other time she would have joked with him about not treating a lady like that, but now she could barely feel it through the noise inside her head.
Arthur shrugged and looked at Merlin. They shared a silent conversation Gwen couldn't decipher, until Arthur visibly deflated, running a hand through his hair. "I can't go, I wish to the gods that I could."
"Then I'm going," Merlin said, jaw set tight and hard.
Arthur shook his head. "Bayard is terrified of your magic, if he catches you within Mercian borders, a war will be the least of our problems."
They stared at each other, neither one willing to back down, and Gwen stood between them, thoughts on the trade route that ran like a major artery through Albion, pumping the lifeblood of commerce into countries on either side of it. It was a dangerous road, beset by bandits and often untended - but it would lead her to where she needed to go.
"I-" she said, not sure that it was a good idea to let either of them know what she intended to do, "I think I need to go, to my rooms, I mean. I need to get some rest, to think this through."
Arthur and Merlin were so wrapped up in each other and their little struggle, they hardly noticed that she left, and Gwen began to plan in earnest.
+
Morgana lay flat on the grass of the training grounds, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Gwen came running, excited from the victory that Morgana had managed to draw from the prince, who sat a few paces away with a bump on his head. Gwen almost threw herself at Morgana, bubbling with the joy of winning even though it hadn't been her fight. She gave Morgana a hand up and then embraced her like they hadn't seen each other for months.
"You were amazing," she said, grinning into Morgana's hair, "absolutely amazing."
Morgana's arms came up around her and they stood like that forever, breathing the scent of metal and sweat, while the prince mumbled that he'd fallen over a rock, that he'd let her win, and anyway, it didn't count because Morgana wasn't allowed to fight, really. Gwen knew from the flush in Morgana's cheeks and the way her eyes seemed to sparkle with energy that the victory was real.
+
The day Morgana left, rain had fallen hard and heavy onto the roof of the castle, creating an illusion of cavernous safety within its walls. Gwen still felt the drops of water, searing her skin like acid, as Morgana had ridden with five armed escorts, a silken hood hiding her face. For a week, Arthur had found ways to be with Gwen almost every waking moment, and she had felt Merlin's magic crawling across her skin, as he kept a watchful enchantment on her. She had been a prisoner of their promise to Morgana.
She would not be a prisoner this time.
Gwen sneaked out of the castle and into the stables without anyone seeing her, wearing the fine hunting leathers Arthur had gifted her years ago, when she'd still been a maid and Morgana had taken her into the woods to teach her all manner of things to survive alone. Those lessons might prove invaluable yet, if she managed to get away from Camelot without being seen.
The mare she'd saddled and prepared earlier whinnied as Gwen came closer, excitedly flicking her tail. Gwen stroked her nose and whispered a few calming words.
"I suppose it would be foolish to try to stop you," came Arthur's voice from the shadow in the corner of the box. Gwen jumped, startled, but didn't cry out.
"I have to go, Arthur," she said, "you would go too, if you could be sure to leave the kingdom in trustworthy hands, but Lancelot isn't due to return for a fortnight and Merlin, well, not to say he isn't trustworthy, because he is, but-"
Arthur laughed. "But he's Merlin."
Gwen couldn't help grinning back, at her friend, her husband. "He's a good man."
"He's trying to figure out a way to turn himself into an animal, something that can travel undetected through Mercia, but so far he's only managed a rabbit and I'm not letting him go like that. Knowing his luck, he'd be skinned and eaten before nightfall."
Gwen laughed, patting the horse's neck to keep her calm. "Had you expected anything else from him?"
"Gwen," Arthur said, suddenly sober, a serious quality to his voice, "Be careful out there. Mercia would as soon take you hostage as give you shelter and I can't promise not to come after you with an army if they do."
Gwen thought of the long road ahead, of bandits and pitfalls, and all the things that could happen to a woman travelling alone. She frowned. "Arthur, what are you going to do, and don't tell me you have nothing planned, because I know you. You would not let me go alone."
He looked away, toward his favourite stallion, and Gwen could see the admission in the set of his shoulders. "I told Gawain to shadow you, you wouldn't have seen hide nor hair from him."
Gwen stepped into Arthur's space like she belonged there, her hands taking hold of his face to make him look at her. "It's okay, Arthur, I appreciate it."
She kissed him, chaste, and folded herself into his embrace. She'd always felt safe like this, but never more than that, never the kind of fire she remembered, the kind of fire she could see when Merlin only so much as looked at Arthur.
"Take Hengroen," Arthur said, "he's kind as a lamb to you and will bear you as far as you want to go, even if it's to the end of the world."
+
They'd kissed, once, just to see what it was like, sitting in the shade of a willow tree. Morgana had brought it up, flushing red like a barkeep with no head for ale. Gwen grinned at her, and took Morgana's hand in hers, pressing small kisses to the knuckles.
"It's no different than a handshake," she said, but Morgana pulled her hand away.
"I meant," Morgana began, but faltered, for once at a loss for words, "I meant this." And then she pressed her lips to Gwen's, a single perfect moment and then she was gone, jumping up and babbling about places she had to be, feasts and audiences. Gwen didn't listen, still caught in the moment, still feeling the ghost of their connection on her skin.
+
Gawain made a great companion for an ill-advised rescue mission, his stoic face never betraying a single emotion, a blank canvas that filled a space beside her on the road, but not in her mind. She learned to take his presence like that of the horses, a necessity of travelling but so unobtrusive that the moment he did address her, Gwen almost jumped out of her skin.
"Excuse me, my Lady, but we've crossed the border into Mercia and I wanted to know if you'd rather press onward along the trade route or perhaps wish to stop at the king's court."
Gwen grimaced at the idea of spending any time at all with King Bayard and his wife, who'd looked at her much as one would at an insect when they'd been formally introduced a couple of years ago. One hand resting on the log that served as a makeshift bench in front of their small camp fire, Gwen shook her head.
"I want to move forward, we don't know how much time we have left." Gwen feared the worst and every moment they were on the road was a moment that Morgana could already be dead, and living in that strange in-between place, where her friend was both dead and not was slowly driving her crazy.
They progressed north and the weather changed into a grey haze, never quite raining but drizzling in such a way that they were never comfortable, wet and cold and miserable. Gawain caught a chill and began to show signs of fever a day away from the Northern border of Mercia. They stayed at a tavern and Gwen paid the local physician three gold coins to make sure that Gawain would recover in comfort, then she went on alone.
It was a dangerous choice, stupid even, but Gwen could not shake the feeling that she was needed and that she had to be fast. Morgana was out there somewhere, hunted by her own people, with a small child to care for and no friends.
+
The day Morgana left, she asked Gwen not to come.
"No," Gwen said, "you can't tell me that your new husband abuses women and expect me to let you go to him alone."
Morgana clung to her, an embrace that seemed to drain all the air out of her, cutting off her heart. "I'm sorry," Morgana said, "I can't let you risk yourself."
Gwen fought bitter tears as she rubbed Morgana's back, trying to give comfort when she felt like death, like murder and mayhem. She had never wanted anyone dead as much as King Cern, not even Uther after he'd taken her father.
"But what of you?" Gwen asked, already knowing the answer.
Morgana sighed, "I will do my duty."
It was ironic that Arthur and Morgana ended up being so similar, when both of them had tried so hard not to acknowledge the other as anything like a sibling. Gwen hated it, hated Uther for making the match, hated Cern for taking the offer and, really, on principle, because Cern was an animal, and some part of her hated Morgana for not fighting it more.
"And besides," Morgana said, dredging up a watery smile, "I have a feeling we will see each other again. Be safe for me."
Later she thought that if Morgana had fought the match for her sake, been a little less self-sacrificial about the whole affair, Gwen would have followed her to the end of the earth.
+
At night, the woods whispered into her ear of all the things that could go wrong, and Gwen shivered in her enchanted cloak - a gift from Merlin that let malicious gazes pearl off her like water. She slept fitfully and dreamed of all her past mistakes, of all the times she could have said what was in her heart and didn't, of all the times she let love slip through her fingers. When she woke, she felt that this journey was as much about her as it was about bringing Morgana back to Camelot.
The road stretched ahead of her and she began to wonder what she would find at the end of it. King Cern had owned many castles and his lands were sprawling and sparsely populated. If Morgana had gone into hiding, Gwen would never find her.
But none of that mattered as she bent low over the neck of Hengroen, Arthur's favourite steed, wrapped up in Merlin's magic, to seek the missing part of herself. She never faltered and never looked back, and then she came upon the first village that raised Morgana's colours. Her eyes watered from the wind and speed of the ride and she heard nothing of the questions and gentle remarks the villagers sent her way, barely felt the hands that helped her off the horse. She nodded in thanks to the man who gave her water and smiled at the woman who offered her bread.
"Thank you," she said, out of breath, out of mind, "thank you, but I must press on. Say, what do you know of the queen?"
The villagers hadn't heard any news since the war broke out, but that alone chilled Gwen to the core. A war, they said, but the queen has a champion and a loyal force of knights, enough to hold out against the barons for a while. They didn't say what was on everyone's minds - that a while would not be enough, that the boy who would be king was a child still, and none of the nobles were willing to give Morgana the regency.
Pointing her northward, the villagers spoke of the great capital city, which had to be the centre of this dispute, because it was a sprawling fortress, the main keep of which could withstand a storm of dragons. If Morgana's champion had any sense, they said, he would barricade the queen and her son within and try to hold out until the king's uncle sent help from the East. Gwen shuddered as she thought of the man who had raised Cern, a brute and a cruel master to his servants.
She slept in a bed for the night, slept badly and tossed and turned until the soft light of dawn drove her outside. She readied Hengroen and left before the first cockcrow, racing toward the dark slice of night sky, where Morgana still fought her battles alone.
+
The river dug deep into the surrounding hills, scraping its signature into the earth and stone, creating a valley that looked like the gash left by an enormous blade, ragged and bleeding. Gwen's eyes found the castle and caught on the stark beauty of it. The capital city of Cern's kingdom had none of Camelot's grace, but its squat, hulking form made a good argument for utility. No one with any sense would try to take it head on, not with walls that seemed strong enough to hold up the sky.
The castle was surrounded by several camps, a siege that would make it almost impossible for anyone to enter or leave undetected - impossible unless that person had some kind of concealing magic. Gwen drew her cloak tighter around her and wondered if she could leave Hengroen to fend for himself. Arthur would be quite cross if she returned without the horse.
Slipping out of the saddle, she made placating noises and tried to keep herself and the horse as quiet as possible. The first armed camps were not a mile away, and if the barons had any notion of fighting this war properly, they'd have scouts sweeping the area frequently. Her fingers curled into Hengroen's mane, and it felt necessary to press a kiss to his nose, where the fur was soft like down.
"Hey," she said, tugging a little at a strand of hair, "you need to be careful out here. If you hear anyone, anyone at all, you need to run. Maybe, maybe you can find your way back to Arthur, maybe he could-"
She faltered, didn't speak of hope or rescue when she knew that the price was too high. Arthur would come, and damn the consequences, but it would be the start of a war Camelot could ill-afford, a war that would mark the end of Mercia's arrogant posturing in blood. She let go of Hengroen and hoped he wouldn't try to follow. The magic of Merlin's cloak was likely to hide her from anyone who wasn't explicitly searching for her, but it would do nothing for the prized stallion belonging to Camelot's king.
Looking back, she found Hengroen standing still and proud, an animal out of fairy tales and legend, with eyes far more shrewd than half the people Gwen had met in her life. He bowed his head and Gwen couldn't help feeling it was a goodbye. She raised her hand and waved, a little hesitant, and then he turned and disappeared.
Gwen felt suddenly, desperately alone.
She began to make her way past the camps, avoiding the scouting parties that got more numerous the closer she came to the castle. Her cloak snagged on low hanging branches and her feet caught on trapping roots, but she didn't fall and she didn't let anything slow her down. Somewhere close, Morgana needed her help, and Gwen had never been able to deny her lady anything.
The forest dropped away around her as she came to a chasm and a large field lay empty at her feet, empty but for the two armies facing each other across the divide. She recognized the banner at once, the sign of her lady, Morgana's champion stood proud at the helm of the defending force.
He cut an impressing figure in the full plate armour, despite his short stature. His men looked upon him with reverence, their loyalty a physical presence that seemed to damn anyone who would stand against them. The numbers were nowhere near in their favour though, and Gwen feared the worst, feared she would have to bear witness to the end of all Morgana's hopes.
The commander of the opposing force yelled something, his voice ripping through the air in a terrible tenor. Gwen shuddered, wanting to take her eyes off the charging mass of sinew and steel, but she couldn't let this moment of defiance pass unwatched. If a story were to be all that remained of Morgana's knight, then she would make certain it would be the truth.
Gwen watched the armies crash into each other, soldiers swinging weapons and yelling at the top of their lungs. Blood and spit and sweat clung to their bodies and dripped into the dirt beneath their feet, staining it dark pink, turning it into a slippery trap. Morgana's champion cut through mail and skin and bone, swinging his sword with an ease that looked almost familiar, the way Arthur would fight in a desperate situation. His men fell in behind him, cutting a path right through the enemy's line. Their luck couldn't hold, something had to give, and their force was simply outmatched, even when their courage shone like fire. Their momentum didn't carry them far enough, and instead of coming out behind the attackers, they found themselves surrounded.
She held fast to a tree trunk with one hand, the other raised to her face, curled in the cloak, and she was scared to breathe, unable to look away. It was her duty, as a friend, to see this through.
The knight, who wore Morgana's emblem on his chest, threw himself into the masses around him, his sword clashing with axes and spears, driving into the soft flesh of his enemies. The soldiers followed him, with obedience and love only the greatest of leaders could inspire. Gwen could barely see their faces, but there was no hesitation in these men, and very little fear. They fought with their swords, then their knives, and if those failed they used their hands, dug their teeth into their foes like dogs, never letting go. They were brilliant and desperate and they didn't yield.
It was stunning to watch them fight out of that ring, out of certain death. They whirled and twisted and yelled their queen's name like a prayer. Gwen almost cried with the terrible, horrific beauty of it and she knew that no man of Camelot would fight for her like that, no man except for Arthur, who fought for everyone. Incredibly, impossibly, the defenders burst out of their confinement and scattered the attacking army, winning against all odds.
The knight raised his sword and a victory cry emerged from his men, hoarse and unintelligible, an animal sound in its purity. They raised their leader onto their shoulders, and he ripped off his helmet.
"Morgana," Gwen breathed. Her heart seemed to be torn, skipping like a caged bird, and she felt hot tears on her face. "Morgana."
It made sense, now, that it would all be familiar; Gwen had seen Morgana fight so many times, and it was obvious in hindsight, so many tells in the curve of her body, the rhythm of her movements. Gwen stumbled onto the field, protected only by her cloak, and she ran, ran harder than she ever had in her life, to reach Morgana.
Soldiers parted before her, let her through without so much as a glance, and perhaps this was Merlin's magic, too, parting the seas for her so she could find what she was looking for. She reached Morgana, panting, scratched from the undergrowth of the forest, sore at heart and so tired, but she unearthed a smile for her lady, and fell to her knees, exhaustion taking its toll.
"Morgana," she said, and Morgana rushed to her, embracing her. Their arms locked so tight around each other that breath eluded them, but neither air nor blood mattered, all that mattered was the feel of Morgana's skin under Gwen's lips.
"Gwen, by the gods, Gwen," Morgana held her, rocked her, and in a field outside Morgana's castle, drenched in blood and dirty from the road, they were home.
+
Morgana kept shooting her glances across the physician's chamber. The old woman pressed ever more smelly poultices onto Morgana's bruises, and Gwen caught herself staring at the purpling skin, white expanses of flesh marked by the colour of blood.
Gwen blushed and turned away, rubbing some of the hot herbal salve into the scratches on her arms, trying not to think of anything at all, and certainly not the state Morgana was in. Morgana, who could have died. She felt hot and tired and altogether too uncomfortable in her skin. It was like an itch she couldn't scratch, and Morgana kept looking at her, not saying anything at all.
What was there to say anyway, how could Gwen explain what had driven her across Albion to find her friend, when she didn't even know herself? She bit her lip and didn't look up, even as she could feel Morgana's eyes on her, piercing her right to the core.
“I'm glad you're here,“ Morgana said. Her voice was much closer than Gwen expected and looking up brought her face to face with her former mistress. Morgana had changed in the years they'd been apart. She was still incredibly beautiful but the lines around her mouth had deepened, a frown had dug into her forehead, and her eyes shone with more age than time suggested. Morgana looked like she'd been through hell and come out the other side. Her smile, however, her smile was brilliant, and Gwen couldn't help but smile back.
“I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.“ Gwen's voice broke a little with tears of hapiness, and she threw herself around Morgana's neck, just to make sure that it was all real.
Morgana returned the embrace, pressing her hard to her chest - naked but for her bandages - despite the broken ribs she'd been diagnosed with earlier.
“Oy,“ said the physician, “I didn't authorize any strenuous physical activity, now did I?“
Morgana laughed into her ear, and they held on despite the protests, despite the pain Gwen could almost feel through the hitches of Morgana's breath, the fluttery beat of her heart. Gwen breathed into Morgana's hair, breathed in the smell of blood and metal, and felt like she'd found her place.
“It's alright, Maddy,” Morgana said, still clinging to Gwen, “I'm not made of glass, I won't break.”
The physician huffed, rolling her eyes, but did turn away to give them a little privacy. Gwen drew back enough to look at Morgana, a smile on her face, tears blurring her vision a little. “On the battlefield, you take more risks than Arthur, so let us worry about you since you won't do it for yourself.”
Morgana grinned, shaking her head. “I do worry about myself, all the time. When I'm out there, I'm terrified, but I can't lose. I... Gwen, I know I can't lose.”
Gwen sighed. “No one can know what will happen, you sound like Merlin when he talks about Arthur and their blasted destiny.”
Morgana laughed. “Do you remember my dreams, the horrible nightmares I would get whenever Arthur was doing something stupid or dangerous?”
Gwen shook her head, in disbelief but not denial. She remembered the terror of those nights, the emptiness in Morgana's eyes when she woke and couldn't recognize Gwen at all. The dreams had taken a toll on Morgana's health, but more than that, they'd poisoned her mind with a darkness no one else could understand. Gwen had tried, she really had, but it had never occurred to either of them the dreams were more than just fears given form.
"They are a peculiar form of magic," Morgana said. "They show me what will be and what may yet be averted. I've seen the future, Gwen, and so far I'm still in it."
Playing with the hem of her sleeve, Gwen tried to imagine what that would feel like - to know everything that would come to pass, never to be surprised by anything. Then again- "You didn't know about me, did you? That I was going to be on that field?"
Morgana shook her head. "It doesn't work like that, I see glimpses and shadows, never the sort of things I want to see."
Gwen frowned, thinking of all the horror Morgana had relayed to her in starts and stops, sounding broken and faded. If that was the kind of gift magic gave to people, it was lucky to be one of the mundane ones, who never managed so much as a simple healing charm. Merlin had tried to teach her once, but magic and Gwen didn't seem to mix at all.
"You should be careful anyway," Gwen said, pulling Morgana back into an embrace. "The future alone will not keep you safe from cold steel."
+
Morgana's rooms had high, vaulted ceilings that would make it a horror to heat in winter. Tapestries covered every wall, telling stories of heroes and kings, and the furniture was beautifully crafted from a dark, gleaming wood that felt silky to the touch. Gwen fell into a fur-covered chair and closed her eyes, exhausted to a point she hadn't known was possible. Morgana was with her soldiers, the few knights who had sworn fealty to her son and were willing to fight beside a woman, taking orders from her to the death. They were too few already and every loss weighed heavily on them.
The boy, she'd met him and he was- his bones spoke of his father, the paleness of his skin of Morgana. He was so obviously the son of King Cern that only his death would leave any opening for someone to take the throne. He had a bright smile and old, dark eyes. He reminded Gwen of the boy Mordred, who had worn his grief like a cloak.
Gwydre, the boy who would be king, if his mother could stand against a whole country of greedy barons and warlords. He had little to hope for and less to hold up in defence, but he had the air of a king already and if he were to grow up, he might rival Arthur in brilliance. Gwen thought of the night she'd shared with Arthur, talking until dawn, with more than just space between them - Gwydre would make a good heir, maybe, in lieu of the children Arthur would never have.
A knock at the door forced Gwen to stand up once more, despite a deep fatigue that had taken hold of her limbs. She found the boy staring up at her, eyes wide and raw with unshed tears.
"Lady Guinevere," he said, "may I speak with you?"
Gwen looked back at the room behind her, the easy familiarity of it, and followed the boy outside. "You look troubled," she said, holding his hand as he led her through the twilit castle. His face was intent, scrunched up in a frown that seemed somehow too old for his features, too heavy by far. They stopped, finally, at the castle's chapel, and Gwydre turned to face her fully.
"My uncle is coming with an army," Gwydre said, and Gwen shuddered at the calm, ice-cold tone. "Mother thinks my blood is enough to make him support us, but she's wrong."
Gwen's eyes widened. "What do you mean, have you heard something?" The ways of children could often unearth rumors before any adult.
He shook his head, suddenly bashful, hesitant - it was an expression Gwen had seen before, on Merlin, and on Arthur, it was the expression of a boy who had a secret. She smiled and knelt beside Gwydre, bringing them to a height. She took his hand and let the silence do its own work, the pressure of it digging at Gwydre's defences.
"I- my lady, please do not tell mother of this, please." Gwen promised and Gwydre released a breath of relief. "It's in my dreams, it's horrible. Uncle is not a good man, Lady Guinevere, and his army won't protect us. He- he-"
Gwen sighed. This was something she'd feared, something she hadn't let herself consider in its entirety. What was there to do? They couldn't hope to defend against that beast and the barons together, Morgana was barely holding on as it was. "It's alright," Gwen said, hating how her voice broke over the lie. "It will all be alright, I promise you."
Gwydre quivered with restrained tears, but didn't move or even look at her, so Gwen decided to take a risk and hugged him. He stiffened at first, tension in every part of him, but it took little more than a word and the stroke of her fingers over his hair to collapse him into her embrace. He cried silently, ever the proud prince, and Gwen told him all the things she didn't believe.
Her knees and back throbbed with the ache of an uncomfortable position, but she waited until his breath evened out and soft little snores announced that he'd fallen asleep to so much as shift her legs in front of her. She let her fingers card through his hair, soothing herself more than him. Around them, the flicker of candle light cast a shadow play that Gwen could almost read as an omen.
The soldiers and knights were only still holding out because there was hope of rescue, hope of reinforcement, but Morgana had to know. Morgana with her dreams and her cunning would have to know of the end that Gwydre had envisioned, and Gwen could see it too now. The boy had to live for his great-uncle Banan to take the throne, at least at first, but Morgana would always be in the way. Banan would have her killed in such a fashion that no one would dispute his right to become Gwydre's guardian and regent of the land. The barons would support him for the promise of soil or sovereignty, and he would play them to great effect against each other. The people would be the ones to carry the burden of it until Gwydre reached the proper age for assassination that wouldn't make his great-uncle look incompetent in protecting him.
There was no escaping fate, not with so many men salivating for the throne. Unless they were to find the castle abandoned, Morgana and Gwydre long gone, with the promise of an even greater ally. Arthur's Camelot had grown far beyond what Uther could have dreamed, and if there was anyone who could make this right, it was him. Him and Merlin and the knights of Camelot, shining like a beacon of hope. That's what they were meant to be, Bayard's hair-trigger be damned.
Gwen got up, Gwydre still cradled to her chest, and made her way to Morgana's chambers. She had a feeling that Morgana would be a hard sell on accepting help from anyone, let alone Arthur Pendragon.
+
Part 2
Author: suaine
Fandom: Merlin
Pairings: Gwen/Morgana, Arthur/Merlin (background), past Morgana/other
Characters: Gwen, Morgana
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: past/off-screen abuse
Spoilers: general for the series
Betas: fay_morgenstern, staraflur, exoticrooftile
Summary: The death of a king upsets the precarious balance between the kingdoms of Albion, and suddenly Gwen has to be more than just queen.
Artwork: Beautiful cover art by reflectedeve
Author's Notes: Thanks to just about everyone who listened to me wail about this story. It wouldn't have happened without the support of my entire flist.
The chamber maid left with a curtsey, hurrying out of the royal quarters as if stung by a wasp. Gwen sighed and returned to her stitching. She'd been concentrating on a miniature Pendragon crest before the timid girl had approached her. She informed her that Arthur had requested Gwen's presence; and true to his nature he'd terrified the girl. Emma, who had started working for the court a year after the coronation. She wouldn't know any different.
Arthur had a reputation with the new maids, something more than human; revered and feared at the same time. Gwen put down the embroidery frame and frowned at the door. Arthur didn't just summon her like the servant she used to be. He'd always made a point to come himself to seek her out or in rare cases he would send Merlin.
Gwen trailed her fingers over the colourful threads of her unfinished work, the story of her life in tiny stitches, telling more of Arthur and his ascension to the throne than of anything she had ever done. The needlework had time, whatever Arthur needed from her was likely more important. Sometimes, she would let him wait, to remind the king of his human side. However, she knew well enough that few people accepted the rule and power of a mere mortal, so she stood with him when he needed it, a picture of royalty where the reality spoke of something else, but she served her purpose. She was, in her own way, protecting a friend, a loved one, and nothing else could measure up to that.
Calling for a maid to help her, Gwen walked toward her wardrobe and stared at the lavish, beautiful dresses. Her eyes fell on the dress her father had given her, paid for by Tauren's blood money - beautiful, so laced with tragedy that she'd never worn it. She'd felt tempted to wear it only once, when King Uther had finally succumbed to his wasting illness and Camelot had breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been an insult - granted, she would have been the only one who would have known - but Arthur's shuttered expression had stopped her, and instead she had worn the simple white of funeral garb for a week.
"My lady," the maid, Bran, announced her presence, and Gwen smiled at the girl.
"What do you think I should wear?"
Morgana had always asked her opinion, but none of her own maids seemed capable of ignoring her station. As if that station was anything worthy of such attentions, really, considering where she had come from. Considering Arthur's tendency to surround himself with people who had nothing but the clothes on their backs. Between her, Merlin and Lancelot, Arthur trusted those who'd grown up in hardship more than any Baron or Lord.
"I couldn't presume," Bran said, but her eyes were locked onto a dark silk dress with a low front.
Gwen smiled and pointed toward it. "That one might do nicely, don't you think?"
It took Bran little time to get Gwen all tied up in the bodice, quiet and invisible as a servant was supposed to be. It just reminded Gwen of all the times it had been different for her, all the times Morgana had laughed with her. It reminded her of the last time she'd ever done up the laces of a bodice herself, the day Morgana had left Camelot for good.
"Thank you," Gwen said. "I think I can do the rest myself. Please, take some time for yourself. I know the twins must miss you when you're here all the time." Bran blushed, and left the room with a hurried curtsey.
Gwen breathed once, hindered by the fabric of her dress, and stepped into the bustle of Camelot.
+
Gwen had been wet the first time they met, all over mud from playing in the puddles with Greg and the other children that lived in the neighbourhood. She was tall for her age - her father called her his blooming flower - and her dress was too short in the arms, and barely reached the upper curve of her shins. She liked to be pretty, liked to emulate the ladies of the court as they passed by on their horses, chins high and hair sparkling with gems. She had no gems, but she did have flowers, and Gregory always bowed low before her when she pretended to be a princess.
The Lady Morgana did not look like any of the courtiers Gwen had ever seen, long dark hair pulled into a harsh pony tail and wearing breeches and a tunic that would not be amiss on the prince. Her face was set in a fearsome expression, cold and hard, but there was something beneath that, something that made Gwen hold out her hand-
"Hi, I'm Gwen, the blacksmith's daughter."
Morgana looked at her own hand, the one that had a wooden practice sword in it, then at Gwen. She fumbled the sword into her left, almost dropping it, and reached out to grasp Gwen's hand in a warm grip.
+
Arthur had the kind of expression on his face that made decorated generals recoil in fear, a thunder cloud given human form. Gwen rolled her eyes at Merlin, who stood to the right of his king, always ready with a comment for Arthur's ear only. They worked well together in this as much as anything else. Sometimes Gwen envied them for their easy transition into these new roles, where she still floundered five years into being queen.
"Guinevere!" Arthur smiled, perhaps a little too bright to be believable. Something big was preying on his mind. Gwen walked up to them and took her place at his left side, the place Morgana had called her own until Uther had practically sold her for a treaty.
"My King," she said, eager to find out what he thought could not be done without her. Very few of the royal audiences ever required her presence, and often it was only Merlin's wry humour that kept her awake in council sessions. There was only so much a person could hear about grain distribution before the words lost all meaning.
A young boy stepped forward, no older than Lancelot's squire Galahad, and he looked at Arthur with such urgency that Gwen herself would have given him leave to speak, had Arthur not done so. "If you would tell the court what you've told Jeremy," Arthur said, "and don't leave anything out for fear of hurting anyone's sensibilities, the truth holds highest station in my kingdom." The boy spoke of a civil war in a northern kingdom, and something about the name struck Gwen as familiar. She waved Merlin to her side.
"Merlin," she said, hiding her mouth with a hand to preserve the illusion of attention, "have we had dealings with these people before?"
Merlin shook his head minutely. "Not since Arthur's been king, but I remember the name as well. I just can't put it together."
Arthur waved the boy off and adjourned the court, claiming a headache, which was unusual enough to spark a torrent of whispers. Gwen frowned at Arthur, but his face was as hard to read as the rune stones of an oracle.
"Come with me," Arthur said, as hard as any order he gave his knights, "both of you." He looked at Merlin, then at her, and there was something terrible just under the mask he wore for other people. Gwen hurried to keep up.
In his chambers, Arthur paced for a good minute before he seemed ready to speak through his anger. Since the wedding, Gwen had been living in a state of confusion about her relationship with the king, with Merlin, and her own place in Camelot, but she had never been afraid of Arthur. Never, not since before he almost died from the bite of the questing beast. She was afraid now.
"We can't send troops," Arthur said. "The treaties with Mercia would crumble into dust and we can't afford that, not now."
Merlin stoked the fire. He looked far more comfortable here than Gwen could ever feel in the role she'd stumbled into. Even though Arthur had turned out to be the kind of man who deserved the crown and everything to go with it, she still couldn't quite believe it when someone bowed before her - wearing her own crown felt like an ill-advised prank.
"We should be able to help people in need," Merlin said, "but we can't be there for everyone. What stake do we have in this?"
And just like that, with Arthur's face darkening, his anger boiling to the surface, Gwen remembered. The name of the king had been Cern and his toothless smile had only barely covered the sadistic core beneath. Morgana had been stoic, beautiful, and absolutely terrified.
"It's Morgana," Gwen said, shuddering with the memories. "It's where Cern took her when-" She couldn't say it out loud. Those days had cost them all, and it had started something between the three of them, the kind of bond that could support a greater kingdom than Uther or Cern could possibly imagine. It had come at the price of a life.
Merlin's hand came to rest on her shoulder, giving comfort as much as he took, squeezing just a little too hard. His words seemed to pierce Arthur like arrows, each one drawing blood. "We have to send troops, we can't let her... we just can't, alright?"
Arthur stood, arms crossed, the perfect picture of defensiveness. "From what the messenger told us, there is little hope. She would need an army to get her and the child out alive."
The world twisted and churned as Gwen realized, "Morgana has a son." She stumbled a little over the words, feeling them out and finding only ashes. She could imagine what that meant, and she hoped to the gods that it was a bastard child, that the king had never managed to lay a hand on Morgana before he'd died.
"He's the heir," Arthur said, grim and not meeting Gwen's eyes. "The barons will hunt them down and kill them both. Morgana and the boy are too much of a liability otherwise."
Gwen hated that Arthur could think like that, assessing the situation and coldly coming to the conclusion that their friend's life was forfeit because of Mercia's paranoia. Arthur seemed to take it hard enough, bound by his own helplessness, but Gwen resented him for taking the practical stance, just enough to birth an idea at the back of her mind.
"There has to be something we can do," she said, batting down the plan that began forming with the knowledge that it was insanity to try. Merlin's hand tightened on her shoulder, and at any other time she would have joked with him about not treating a lady like that, but now she could barely feel it through the noise inside her head.
Arthur shrugged and looked at Merlin. They shared a silent conversation Gwen couldn't decipher, until Arthur visibly deflated, running a hand through his hair. "I can't go, I wish to the gods that I could."
"Then I'm going," Merlin said, jaw set tight and hard.
Arthur shook his head. "Bayard is terrified of your magic, if he catches you within Mercian borders, a war will be the least of our problems."
They stared at each other, neither one willing to back down, and Gwen stood between them, thoughts on the trade route that ran like a major artery through Albion, pumping the lifeblood of commerce into countries on either side of it. It was a dangerous road, beset by bandits and often untended - but it would lead her to where she needed to go.
"I-" she said, not sure that it was a good idea to let either of them know what she intended to do, "I think I need to go, to my rooms, I mean. I need to get some rest, to think this through."
Arthur and Merlin were so wrapped up in each other and their little struggle, they hardly noticed that she left, and Gwen began to plan in earnest.
+
Morgana lay flat on the grass of the training grounds, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Gwen came running, excited from the victory that Morgana had managed to draw from the prince, who sat a few paces away with a bump on his head. Gwen almost threw herself at Morgana, bubbling with the joy of winning even though it hadn't been her fight. She gave Morgana a hand up and then embraced her like they hadn't seen each other for months.
"You were amazing," she said, grinning into Morgana's hair, "absolutely amazing."
Morgana's arms came up around her and they stood like that forever, breathing the scent of metal and sweat, while the prince mumbled that he'd fallen over a rock, that he'd let her win, and anyway, it didn't count because Morgana wasn't allowed to fight, really. Gwen knew from the flush in Morgana's cheeks and the way her eyes seemed to sparkle with energy that the victory was real.
+
The day Morgana left, rain had fallen hard and heavy onto the roof of the castle, creating an illusion of cavernous safety within its walls. Gwen still felt the drops of water, searing her skin like acid, as Morgana had ridden with five armed escorts, a silken hood hiding her face. For a week, Arthur had found ways to be with Gwen almost every waking moment, and she had felt Merlin's magic crawling across her skin, as he kept a watchful enchantment on her. She had been a prisoner of their promise to Morgana.
She would not be a prisoner this time.
Gwen sneaked out of the castle and into the stables without anyone seeing her, wearing the fine hunting leathers Arthur had gifted her years ago, when she'd still been a maid and Morgana had taken her into the woods to teach her all manner of things to survive alone. Those lessons might prove invaluable yet, if she managed to get away from Camelot without being seen.
The mare she'd saddled and prepared earlier whinnied as Gwen came closer, excitedly flicking her tail. Gwen stroked her nose and whispered a few calming words.
"I suppose it would be foolish to try to stop you," came Arthur's voice from the shadow in the corner of the box. Gwen jumped, startled, but didn't cry out.
"I have to go, Arthur," she said, "you would go too, if you could be sure to leave the kingdom in trustworthy hands, but Lancelot isn't due to return for a fortnight and Merlin, well, not to say he isn't trustworthy, because he is, but-"
Arthur laughed. "But he's Merlin."
Gwen couldn't help grinning back, at her friend, her husband. "He's a good man."
"He's trying to figure out a way to turn himself into an animal, something that can travel undetected through Mercia, but so far he's only managed a rabbit and I'm not letting him go like that. Knowing his luck, he'd be skinned and eaten before nightfall."
Gwen laughed, patting the horse's neck to keep her calm. "Had you expected anything else from him?"
"Gwen," Arthur said, suddenly sober, a serious quality to his voice, "Be careful out there. Mercia would as soon take you hostage as give you shelter and I can't promise not to come after you with an army if they do."
Gwen thought of the long road ahead, of bandits and pitfalls, and all the things that could happen to a woman travelling alone. She frowned. "Arthur, what are you going to do, and don't tell me you have nothing planned, because I know you. You would not let me go alone."
He looked away, toward his favourite stallion, and Gwen could see the admission in the set of his shoulders. "I told Gawain to shadow you, you wouldn't have seen hide nor hair from him."
Gwen stepped into Arthur's space like she belonged there, her hands taking hold of his face to make him look at her. "It's okay, Arthur, I appreciate it."
She kissed him, chaste, and folded herself into his embrace. She'd always felt safe like this, but never more than that, never the kind of fire she remembered, the kind of fire she could see when Merlin only so much as looked at Arthur.
"Take Hengroen," Arthur said, "he's kind as a lamb to you and will bear you as far as you want to go, even if it's to the end of the world."
+
They'd kissed, once, just to see what it was like, sitting in the shade of a willow tree. Morgana had brought it up, flushing red like a barkeep with no head for ale. Gwen grinned at her, and took Morgana's hand in hers, pressing small kisses to the knuckles.
"It's no different than a handshake," she said, but Morgana pulled her hand away.
"I meant," Morgana began, but faltered, for once at a loss for words, "I meant this." And then she pressed her lips to Gwen's, a single perfect moment and then she was gone, jumping up and babbling about places she had to be, feasts and audiences. Gwen didn't listen, still caught in the moment, still feeling the ghost of their connection on her skin.
+
Gawain made a great companion for an ill-advised rescue mission, his stoic face never betraying a single emotion, a blank canvas that filled a space beside her on the road, but not in her mind. She learned to take his presence like that of the horses, a necessity of travelling but so unobtrusive that the moment he did address her, Gwen almost jumped out of her skin.
"Excuse me, my Lady, but we've crossed the border into Mercia and I wanted to know if you'd rather press onward along the trade route or perhaps wish to stop at the king's court."
Gwen grimaced at the idea of spending any time at all with King Bayard and his wife, who'd looked at her much as one would at an insect when they'd been formally introduced a couple of years ago. One hand resting on the log that served as a makeshift bench in front of their small camp fire, Gwen shook her head.
"I want to move forward, we don't know how much time we have left." Gwen feared the worst and every moment they were on the road was a moment that Morgana could already be dead, and living in that strange in-between place, where her friend was both dead and not was slowly driving her crazy.
They progressed north and the weather changed into a grey haze, never quite raining but drizzling in such a way that they were never comfortable, wet and cold and miserable. Gawain caught a chill and began to show signs of fever a day away from the Northern border of Mercia. They stayed at a tavern and Gwen paid the local physician three gold coins to make sure that Gawain would recover in comfort, then she went on alone.
It was a dangerous choice, stupid even, but Gwen could not shake the feeling that she was needed and that she had to be fast. Morgana was out there somewhere, hunted by her own people, with a small child to care for and no friends.
+
The day Morgana left, she asked Gwen not to come.
"No," Gwen said, "you can't tell me that your new husband abuses women and expect me to let you go to him alone."
Morgana clung to her, an embrace that seemed to drain all the air out of her, cutting off her heart. "I'm sorry," Morgana said, "I can't let you risk yourself."
Gwen fought bitter tears as she rubbed Morgana's back, trying to give comfort when she felt like death, like murder and mayhem. She had never wanted anyone dead as much as King Cern, not even Uther after he'd taken her father.
"But what of you?" Gwen asked, already knowing the answer.
Morgana sighed, "I will do my duty."
It was ironic that Arthur and Morgana ended up being so similar, when both of them had tried so hard not to acknowledge the other as anything like a sibling. Gwen hated it, hated Uther for making the match, hated Cern for taking the offer and, really, on principle, because Cern was an animal, and some part of her hated Morgana for not fighting it more.
"And besides," Morgana said, dredging up a watery smile, "I have a feeling we will see each other again. Be safe for me."
Later she thought that if Morgana had fought the match for her sake, been a little less self-sacrificial about the whole affair, Gwen would have followed her to the end of the earth.
+
At night, the woods whispered into her ear of all the things that could go wrong, and Gwen shivered in her enchanted cloak - a gift from Merlin that let malicious gazes pearl off her like water. She slept fitfully and dreamed of all her past mistakes, of all the times she could have said what was in her heart and didn't, of all the times she let love slip through her fingers. When she woke, she felt that this journey was as much about her as it was about bringing Morgana back to Camelot.
The road stretched ahead of her and she began to wonder what she would find at the end of it. King Cern had owned many castles and his lands were sprawling and sparsely populated. If Morgana had gone into hiding, Gwen would never find her.
But none of that mattered as she bent low over the neck of Hengroen, Arthur's favourite steed, wrapped up in Merlin's magic, to seek the missing part of herself. She never faltered and never looked back, and then she came upon the first village that raised Morgana's colours. Her eyes watered from the wind and speed of the ride and she heard nothing of the questions and gentle remarks the villagers sent her way, barely felt the hands that helped her off the horse. She nodded in thanks to the man who gave her water and smiled at the woman who offered her bread.
"Thank you," she said, out of breath, out of mind, "thank you, but I must press on. Say, what do you know of the queen?"
The villagers hadn't heard any news since the war broke out, but that alone chilled Gwen to the core. A war, they said, but the queen has a champion and a loyal force of knights, enough to hold out against the barons for a while. They didn't say what was on everyone's minds - that a while would not be enough, that the boy who would be king was a child still, and none of the nobles were willing to give Morgana the regency.
Pointing her northward, the villagers spoke of the great capital city, which had to be the centre of this dispute, because it was a sprawling fortress, the main keep of which could withstand a storm of dragons. If Morgana's champion had any sense, they said, he would barricade the queen and her son within and try to hold out until the king's uncle sent help from the East. Gwen shuddered as she thought of the man who had raised Cern, a brute and a cruel master to his servants.
She slept in a bed for the night, slept badly and tossed and turned until the soft light of dawn drove her outside. She readied Hengroen and left before the first cockcrow, racing toward the dark slice of night sky, where Morgana still fought her battles alone.
+
The river dug deep into the surrounding hills, scraping its signature into the earth and stone, creating a valley that looked like the gash left by an enormous blade, ragged and bleeding. Gwen's eyes found the castle and caught on the stark beauty of it. The capital city of Cern's kingdom had none of Camelot's grace, but its squat, hulking form made a good argument for utility. No one with any sense would try to take it head on, not with walls that seemed strong enough to hold up the sky.
The castle was surrounded by several camps, a siege that would make it almost impossible for anyone to enter or leave undetected - impossible unless that person had some kind of concealing magic. Gwen drew her cloak tighter around her and wondered if she could leave Hengroen to fend for himself. Arthur would be quite cross if she returned without the horse.
Slipping out of the saddle, she made placating noises and tried to keep herself and the horse as quiet as possible. The first armed camps were not a mile away, and if the barons had any notion of fighting this war properly, they'd have scouts sweeping the area frequently. Her fingers curled into Hengroen's mane, and it felt necessary to press a kiss to his nose, where the fur was soft like down.
"Hey," she said, tugging a little at a strand of hair, "you need to be careful out here. If you hear anyone, anyone at all, you need to run. Maybe, maybe you can find your way back to Arthur, maybe he could-"
She faltered, didn't speak of hope or rescue when she knew that the price was too high. Arthur would come, and damn the consequences, but it would be the start of a war Camelot could ill-afford, a war that would mark the end of Mercia's arrogant posturing in blood. She let go of Hengroen and hoped he wouldn't try to follow. The magic of Merlin's cloak was likely to hide her from anyone who wasn't explicitly searching for her, but it would do nothing for the prized stallion belonging to Camelot's king.
Looking back, she found Hengroen standing still and proud, an animal out of fairy tales and legend, with eyes far more shrewd than half the people Gwen had met in her life. He bowed his head and Gwen couldn't help feeling it was a goodbye. She raised her hand and waved, a little hesitant, and then he turned and disappeared.
Gwen felt suddenly, desperately alone.
She began to make her way past the camps, avoiding the scouting parties that got more numerous the closer she came to the castle. Her cloak snagged on low hanging branches and her feet caught on trapping roots, but she didn't fall and she didn't let anything slow her down. Somewhere close, Morgana needed her help, and Gwen had never been able to deny her lady anything.
The forest dropped away around her as she came to a chasm and a large field lay empty at her feet, empty but for the two armies facing each other across the divide. She recognized the banner at once, the sign of her lady, Morgana's champion stood proud at the helm of the defending force.
He cut an impressing figure in the full plate armour, despite his short stature. His men looked upon him with reverence, their loyalty a physical presence that seemed to damn anyone who would stand against them. The numbers were nowhere near in their favour though, and Gwen feared the worst, feared she would have to bear witness to the end of all Morgana's hopes.
The commander of the opposing force yelled something, his voice ripping through the air in a terrible tenor. Gwen shuddered, wanting to take her eyes off the charging mass of sinew and steel, but she couldn't let this moment of defiance pass unwatched. If a story were to be all that remained of Morgana's knight, then she would make certain it would be the truth.
Gwen watched the armies crash into each other, soldiers swinging weapons and yelling at the top of their lungs. Blood and spit and sweat clung to their bodies and dripped into the dirt beneath their feet, staining it dark pink, turning it into a slippery trap. Morgana's champion cut through mail and skin and bone, swinging his sword with an ease that looked almost familiar, the way Arthur would fight in a desperate situation. His men fell in behind him, cutting a path right through the enemy's line. Their luck couldn't hold, something had to give, and their force was simply outmatched, even when their courage shone like fire. Their momentum didn't carry them far enough, and instead of coming out behind the attackers, they found themselves surrounded.
She held fast to a tree trunk with one hand, the other raised to her face, curled in the cloak, and she was scared to breathe, unable to look away. It was her duty, as a friend, to see this through.
The knight, who wore Morgana's emblem on his chest, threw himself into the masses around him, his sword clashing with axes and spears, driving into the soft flesh of his enemies. The soldiers followed him, with obedience and love only the greatest of leaders could inspire. Gwen could barely see their faces, but there was no hesitation in these men, and very little fear. They fought with their swords, then their knives, and if those failed they used their hands, dug their teeth into their foes like dogs, never letting go. They were brilliant and desperate and they didn't yield.
It was stunning to watch them fight out of that ring, out of certain death. They whirled and twisted and yelled their queen's name like a prayer. Gwen almost cried with the terrible, horrific beauty of it and she knew that no man of Camelot would fight for her like that, no man except for Arthur, who fought for everyone. Incredibly, impossibly, the defenders burst out of their confinement and scattered the attacking army, winning against all odds.
The knight raised his sword and a victory cry emerged from his men, hoarse and unintelligible, an animal sound in its purity. They raised their leader onto their shoulders, and he ripped off his helmet.
"Morgana," Gwen breathed. Her heart seemed to be torn, skipping like a caged bird, and she felt hot tears on her face. "Morgana."
It made sense, now, that it would all be familiar; Gwen had seen Morgana fight so many times, and it was obvious in hindsight, so many tells in the curve of her body, the rhythm of her movements. Gwen stumbled onto the field, protected only by her cloak, and she ran, ran harder than she ever had in her life, to reach Morgana.
Soldiers parted before her, let her through without so much as a glance, and perhaps this was Merlin's magic, too, parting the seas for her so she could find what she was looking for. She reached Morgana, panting, scratched from the undergrowth of the forest, sore at heart and so tired, but she unearthed a smile for her lady, and fell to her knees, exhaustion taking its toll.
"Morgana," she said, and Morgana rushed to her, embracing her. Their arms locked so tight around each other that breath eluded them, but neither air nor blood mattered, all that mattered was the feel of Morgana's skin under Gwen's lips.
"Gwen, by the gods, Gwen," Morgana held her, rocked her, and in a field outside Morgana's castle, drenched in blood and dirty from the road, they were home.
+
Morgana kept shooting her glances across the physician's chamber. The old woman pressed ever more smelly poultices onto Morgana's bruises, and Gwen caught herself staring at the purpling skin, white expanses of flesh marked by the colour of blood.
Gwen blushed and turned away, rubbing some of the hot herbal salve into the scratches on her arms, trying not to think of anything at all, and certainly not the state Morgana was in. Morgana, who could have died. She felt hot and tired and altogether too uncomfortable in her skin. It was like an itch she couldn't scratch, and Morgana kept looking at her, not saying anything at all.
What was there to say anyway, how could Gwen explain what had driven her across Albion to find her friend, when she didn't even know herself? She bit her lip and didn't look up, even as she could feel Morgana's eyes on her, piercing her right to the core.
“I'm glad you're here,“ Morgana said. Her voice was much closer than Gwen expected and looking up brought her face to face with her former mistress. Morgana had changed in the years they'd been apart. She was still incredibly beautiful but the lines around her mouth had deepened, a frown had dug into her forehead, and her eyes shone with more age than time suggested. Morgana looked like she'd been through hell and come out the other side. Her smile, however, her smile was brilliant, and Gwen couldn't help but smile back.
“I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.“ Gwen's voice broke a little with tears of hapiness, and she threw herself around Morgana's neck, just to make sure that it was all real.
Morgana returned the embrace, pressing her hard to her chest - naked but for her bandages - despite the broken ribs she'd been diagnosed with earlier.
“Oy,“ said the physician, “I didn't authorize any strenuous physical activity, now did I?“
Morgana laughed into her ear, and they held on despite the protests, despite the pain Gwen could almost feel through the hitches of Morgana's breath, the fluttery beat of her heart. Gwen breathed into Morgana's hair, breathed in the smell of blood and metal, and felt like she'd found her place.
“It's alright, Maddy,” Morgana said, still clinging to Gwen, “I'm not made of glass, I won't break.”
The physician huffed, rolling her eyes, but did turn away to give them a little privacy. Gwen drew back enough to look at Morgana, a smile on her face, tears blurring her vision a little. “On the battlefield, you take more risks than Arthur, so let us worry about you since you won't do it for yourself.”
Morgana grinned, shaking her head. “I do worry about myself, all the time. When I'm out there, I'm terrified, but I can't lose. I... Gwen, I know I can't lose.”
Gwen sighed. “No one can know what will happen, you sound like Merlin when he talks about Arthur and their blasted destiny.”
Morgana laughed. “Do you remember my dreams, the horrible nightmares I would get whenever Arthur was doing something stupid or dangerous?”
Gwen shook her head, in disbelief but not denial. She remembered the terror of those nights, the emptiness in Morgana's eyes when she woke and couldn't recognize Gwen at all. The dreams had taken a toll on Morgana's health, but more than that, they'd poisoned her mind with a darkness no one else could understand. Gwen had tried, she really had, but it had never occurred to either of them the dreams were more than just fears given form.
"They are a peculiar form of magic," Morgana said. "They show me what will be and what may yet be averted. I've seen the future, Gwen, and so far I'm still in it."
Playing with the hem of her sleeve, Gwen tried to imagine what that would feel like - to know everything that would come to pass, never to be surprised by anything. Then again- "You didn't know about me, did you? That I was going to be on that field?"
Morgana shook her head. "It doesn't work like that, I see glimpses and shadows, never the sort of things I want to see."
Gwen frowned, thinking of all the horror Morgana had relayed to her in starts and stops, sounding broken and faded. If that was the kind of gift magic gave to people, it was lucky to be one of the mundane ones, who never managed so much as a simple healing charm. Merlin had tried to teach her once, but magic and Gwen didn't seem to mix at all.
"You should be careful anyway," Gwen said, pulling Morgana back into an embrace. "The future alone will not keep you safe from cold steel."
+
Morgana's rooms had high, vaulted ceilings that would make it a horror to heat in winter. Tapestries covered every wall, telling stories of heroes and kings, and the furniture was beautifully crafted from a dark, gleaming wood that felt silky to the touch. Gwen fell into a fur-covered chair and closed her eyes, exhausted to a point she hadn't known was possible. Morgana was with her soldiers, the few knights who had sworn fealty to her son and were willing to fight beside a woman, taking orders from her to the death. They were too few already and every loss weighed heavily on them.
The boy, she'd met him and he was- his bones spoke of his father, the paleness of his skin of Morgana. He was so obviously the son of King Cern that only his death would leave any opening for someone to take the throne. He had a bright smile and old, dark eyes. He reminded Gwen of the boy Mordred, who had worn his grief like a cloak.
Gwydre, the boy who would be king, if his mother could stand against a whole country of greedy barons and warlords. He had little to hope for and less to hold up in defence, but he had the air of a king already and if he were to grow up, he might rival Arthur in brilliance. Gwen thought of the night she'd shared with Arthur, talking until dawn, with more than just space between them - Gwydre would make a good heir, maybe, in lieu of the children Arthur would never have.
A knock at the door forced Gwen to stand up once more, despite a deep fatigue that had taken hold of her limbs. She found the boy staring up at her, eyes wide and raw with unshed tears.
"Lady Guinevere," he said, "may I speak with you?"
Gwen looked back at the room behind her, the easy familiarity of it, and followed the boy outside. "You look troubled," she said, holding his hand as he led her through the twilit castle. His face was intent, scrunched up in a frown that seemed somehow too old for his features, too heavy by far. They stopped, finally, at the castle's chapel, and Gwydre turned to face her fully.
"My uncle is coming with an army," Gwydre said, and Gwen shuddered at the calm, ice-cold tone. "Mother thinks my blood is enough to make him support us, but she's wrong."
Gwen's eyes widened. "What do you mean, have you heard something?" The ways of children could often unearth rumors before any adult.
He shook his head, suddenly bashful, hesitant - it was an expression Gwen had seen before, on Merlin, and on Arthur, it was the expression of a boy who had a secret. She smiled and knelt beside Gwydre, bringing them to a height. She took his hand and let the silence do its own work, the pressure of it digging at Gwydre's defences.
"I- my lady, please do not tell mother of this, please." Gwen promised and Gwydre released a breath of relief. "It's in my dreams, it's horrible. Uncle is not a good man, Lady Guinevere, and his army won't protect us. He- he-"
Gwen sighed. This was something she'd feared, something she hadn't let herself consider in its entirety. What was there to do? They couldn't hope to defend against that beast and the barons together, Morgana was barely holding on as it was. "It's alright," Gwen said, hating how her voice broke over the lie. "It will all be alright, I promise you."
Gwydre quivered with restrained tears, but didn't move or even look at her, so Gwen decided to take a risk and hugged him. He stiffened at first, tension in every part of him, but it took little more than a word and the stroke of her fingers over his hair to collapse him into her embrace. He cried silently, ever the proud prince, and Gwen told him all the things she didn't believe.
Her knees and back throbbed with the ache of an uncomfortable position, but she waited until his breath evened out and soft little snores announced that he'd fallen asleep to so much as shift her legs in front of her. She let her fingers card through his hair, soothing herself more than him. Around them, the flicker of candle light cast a shadow play that Gwen could almost read as an omen.
The soldiers and knights were only still holding out because there was hope of rescue, hope of reinforcement, but Morgana had to know. Morgana with her dreams and her cunning would have to know of the end that Gwydre had envisioned, and Gwen could see it too now. The boy had to live for his great-uncle Banan to take the throne, at least at first, but Morgana would always be in the way. Banan would have her killed in such a fashion that no one would dispute his right to become Gwydre's guardian and regent of the land. The barons would support him for the promise of soil or sovereignty, and he would play them to great effect against each other. The people would be the ones to carry the burden of it until Gwydre reached the proper age for assassination that wouldn't make his great-uncle look incompetent in protecting him.
There was no escaping fate, not with so many men salivating for the throne. Unless they were to find the castle abandoned, Morgana and Gwydre long gone, with the promise of an even greater ally. Arthur's Camelot had grown far beyond what Uther could have dreamed, and if there was anyone who could make this right, it was him. Him and Merlin and the knights of Camelot, shining like a beacon of hope. That's what they were meant to be, Bayard's hair-trigger be damned.
Gwen got up, Gwydre still cradled to her chest, and made her way to Morgana's chambers. She had a feeling that Morgana would be a hard sell on accepting help from anyone, let alone Arthur Pendragon.
+
Part 2