And I'm ready to suffer, and I'm ready to hope (Gwen & Morgana | Part 3)

[dollsome]

Title: And I'm ready to suffer, and I'm ready to hope
Pairing: Gwen & Morgana
Part: 3
Previous Chapters: Part 1 / Part 2
Summary: Morgana has a chat with evil. It proves enlightening.
Author's Note: This chapter decided to veer wildly away from where I actually planned to take this story, so hell, let's see where it goes from here! Apparently, the dudes are simply destined to make an appearance, and there is nothing I can do to fight it.




Part III


Morgana

You're the first to awaken in the morning. The sound of soft, even breathing pulls you out of sleep, and for a moment your heart lurches. You sit up fast (practically a tradition, at this point), and there are Gwen and Hunith. You remember.

You mean to settle back down into bed -- yesterday's long journey has left your limbs aching -- but then you really look at Gwen. She's settled herself onto the floor, curled into a modest ball with one tattered blanket pulled up over her. You have taken her bed, you realize. It ought to have dawned on you sooner. It appears you weren't quite in your right mind yesterday.

Always the servant, you think, watching her. She sleeps as quietly and inoffensively as she does everything else. Does she ever dream? You wonder.

You get up, making as little noise as you can. The bed you took isn't much to lament the loss of: a lumpy, makeshift mattress. You remember Merlin saying that he always slept on the floor, growing up. You like the idea of that. His gangly bones pressing into the dirt.

He would surely be dismayed, if he knew you are here right now. Mere feet from his beloved mother. Breathing his air. Stepping on the ghosts of his gangly sleeping bones.

You smile a little.

Gwen makes a little waking sound, an insignificant 'mmm,' and turns over. It pulls you back to her. You can see her face now, and are happy that you have the time to look. For the longest time, you never thought anything of it: she was your maid, your dearest companion, and of course you had the right to stare at her with as much open love as you wanted to. She always seemed so happy to receive it. She brought you flowers; sometimes you would look out the window and see her down below, just a flash of red or yellow in the field, contemplating carefully which petals might be the most worthy of your table. This would always make you smile, watching her. Knowing she would knock on your door soon, and step into the room like sunshine. She could have brought you weeds and your heart still would have sung odes to them.

Until -- something. The nightmares. Arthur, and his stupid selfish longing glances.

Ah yes, what a gallant lover he was. Throwing Gwen aside like nothing at the first suggestion that he was not the center of her world. You thank God you were the one to throw him aside before he had the chance to do it to you. At least you gave him one good heartbreak.

Two, you amend, thinking of Uther.

But this is something you never allow yourself to do for long, and so you sink down (quietly, quietly; fortunately, it's quite hard for a floor to creak when it's made of dirt) for a closer look at Gwen. You could reach out and touch her -- just touch her face, the way she would touch yours to help you shake the nightmares off. You don't.

If she does have nightmares, are you the stuff of them?

Looking at her tranquil face now, you suddenly recall her anger yesterday. How furious she was over a little spell that could hurt no one. She does not know you at all, anymore. She hasn't a clue how thoroughly you could have hurt them. Morgause told you of magics so potent they could kill a whole village in one of those white, clean flashes. You are not quite that strong, not yet, but you've never been one to shy away from trying.

You only made them forget, which is nothing. A blessing. You rather wish you had the luxury of joining them, and forgetting too.

It felt like forgetting, a little -- to slip right back into your old self. To these people, you are the king's beloved ward. Arthur's beloved almost-sister. The closest thing to a hero that a woman can ever dream of being.

Maybe if you put that mask on long enough, and well enough, Gwen will start to believe you. And if Gwen believes you, then perhaps it will even turn true.

But Gwen never will, is the fact of it. You slammed her against the wall. You cried like an idiot child in front of her. And all after you swore to protect her. To Gwen, that is what your vows are good for.

She makes you weak, says one of the little voices in your head. It sounds like Morgause and Uther and the strongest version of yourself, all at once. A little chorus, chiming out.

You contemplate her dark curls, a little messy with sleep. Her skin. Her eyelids, her lashes. Her mouth, whose smiles you will have to work for.

Might as well smash her skull and be done with it. This stupid yearning would die along with her. You could lick her blood off your fingers and finally call yourself queen.

Like she hears it, Gwen opens her eyes. She jumps a little, and only that makes you notice how close you've come to her. "Morgana!"

The sound of her voice is all it takes. Here you are, beside her, and your head is playing tricks, that's all, just like it's always done. You feel like you could cry again, hating this stupid monster in you.

Chin up, child, says one of the no ones in your head, using Uther's voice. You're made of stronger stuff than that.

"Good morning," you tell her, and smile, and rise.


+


The hollowed out child looks up at you with an utter lack of curiosity when you enter her family's cottage. You've come armed with a cup; it holds a concoction of herbs from Hunith's pantry that will do nothing more drastic than relieve a stomachache. This is not a matter of tinctures. This will be simpler and harder than that, but you have no intention of explaining that to the bystanders. Gwen trails behind you, her expression worried.

"Hello, Alice," you say, crouching down in front of the thoroughly disinterested girl. You feel a flicker of recogntion looking at her, and not just from the dream that led you here. You were like this once; a girl in a room, only able to stare at nothing. "My name is Morgana."

The girl's eyes wander to you, seemingly by chance. As soon as her gaze meets yours, though, it is like key meeting lock. You feel it.

'And secretly, she just wanted to kill us all the while, and eat our hearts!' comes a child's voice; a peal of laughter chases after it. Her lips don't move.

Your heart pounding, you turn back to look at Gwen, at the girl's parents. They continue to watch with anxious but unshaken faces.

So it's only you, then.

No matter. You've got experience in that department.

"Will you drink this for me, please?" you request, willing your hands to stay steady. "I hope it will make you better."

'I thought Emrys would come. I hoped and hoped. I've wanted to see his real face for so very long. But I got you instead. Don't you know I'm tired of you?'

'Emrys has no business here,' you think. It seems to do the trick.

'Liar.'

'Get out of her.'

'Don't be stupid, Morgana. Where else would I go? She called me here.'

'She's a child.'

'Children know enough to be cruel. Besides, I think she wants me to eat her heart.'

"Can you do anything?" the mother implores. "Can you--"

"Shh!" you snap, and then remember yourself, just barely. "Please."

Alice's mother obeys.

Your new companion doesn't seem bothered by the interruption. 'I feel him here. Emrys. Don't you? He's everywhere.'

'If he does show up, I'll make him very sorry that he did.'

'That's silly! He got here first.'

'What do you mean?'

'Surely you must know, you stupid girl. The ghosts of his bones are on the floor. He even killed you once.'

You freeze. Alice's eyes flick to the cup in your hand.

'Please, don't make me drink it. You know what always happens.'

But the body can't do anything, save for remaining still, and so you bring the cup to her lips and tilt it forward. As you do, your thumb brushes the child's face. The touch shocks through you, dazzling and hard.

Alice coughs, spitting all over you. You cannot bring yourself to mind much.

"Who are you?" she asks, her eyes belonging to her again.

"A friend," you say.

That seems to be explanation enough for her. She looks right past you. "Mum? Papa?"

"Oh, sweetheart," her mother cries, and then you are brushed aside as her parents sweep her up. The love and the joy is so thick anyone could choke on it.

"Thank you," her father says, recalling your existence long enough to clasp your hand. Never mind that he would have happily watched you burn yesterday. "Thank you, milady--"

"It's nothing," you say, "truly."

"We'll just give you some time together," Gwen adds kindly, and guides you out.

The sunlight is terribly bright and unforgiving. Nearly white. White as an old man's beard. Merlin with an old man's beard -- could anything be sillier?

"All it took was a touch?" Gwen says, sounding skeptical.

You find this isn't your foremost concern.

"What do you know about Merlin?" you ask her.

The truth. You see it right away, though Gwen recovers fast. "What do you mean?"

"Don't lie to me," you order, stepping in closer, lowering your voice. "He has magic."

"I don't know," Gwen insists. "I don't. I only just started suspecting. I never saw anything that-- and wait, how do you know? Did -- did Alice tell you, somehow? You were hearing something the rest of us weren't, I could tell-- Morgana--"

"Arthur's most trusted friend is a sorcerer." You are practically giddy. "Right there in Camelot. Serving at his side, for years."

"We can't talk about this here," Gwen hisses. Oh, Gwen. Always ever so sensible. It would take far more than the world crashing down to addle her.

She drags you into the chicken coop; her strong grip around your arm seems the only thing that's tethering you to this world. You would like to float away into this new knowledge. To let it eat you up. Merlin. Merlin! Then again, it's hard to float away in a chicken coop. It's barely big enough to fit the both of you, and smells like the bowels of hell besides. The hens all cluck indignantly. You laugh and laugh, thinking of Merlin and Emrys, an old man and a boy, your fate and your killer. There is a very good joke hidden in there somewhere. You're sure of it. He knocked all the air out of your lungs and left you to die on a forest floor. He held you close while you shook with death, and would not let you go.

"That boy! That boy! I should have known it, I suppose. He did kill me, after all. That suggests a certain darkness not belonging to most servant boys. Don't you agree?"

"How can you know it's true?" Gwen says. "Alice was cursed. There isn't much sense in believing a curse--"

"It wasn't just a curse," you protest. "It was a -- spirit. A something. Quite an infuriating conversationalist, too. It seemed to know me very well."

"It's lying to you, Morgana. It's playing some game--"

"So you don't think Merlin is a sorcerer?"

"I think that Merlin is the one to ask about that."

"Well, there's a fine chance of that, considering you've been banished from Camelot on pain of death. I'm sure he'd love it if you popped in for a chat. Make sure to give Arthur a little hello kiss before he burns you at the stake for deplorable acts of wanton independence--"

"Stop."

"Do you know, when Merlin came to torment me -- destinies do that, you see, and he is my destiny and my doom, I was told; isn't that nice? -- it was always under the guise of an old man. That old sorcerer! Surely you know him. Didn't Uther try to burn him at the stake once? Yes -- yes, he did! To save you! That's right! How chivalrous."

"To save me from you, I imagine."

"Guilty. Ah, so he must be a good sorcerer, mustn't he? Sworn to protect Camelot from its destroyers. The savior of virtuous maidens and prat-headed princes."

"Yes, that's enough, thank you," Gwen says. Sensible, sensible Gwen. "Now come on, Morgana--"

"But it's not enough, you see," you interrupt her. Most discourteously. "He found out. He found out about me, years and years ago. He knew, he was the only one who knew, and I trusted him with it, he was the only one I had to trust. And he could have told me he was the same. If I had known he was the same, I--"

You stop. The smell in here really is ungodly. You think you might faint, or die.

Gwen tilts your chin up with one finger, forcing you to meet her eyes.

"What's done is done," she says, quiet and firm, "and you can't go back."

It's almost enough.

"Arthur needs to know," you insist. "He needs to know the truth."

"It's not our truth to tell," Gwen says, with such wise conviction that you believe her for a moment.

But then you think of Merlin: standing in your doorway, sweet and kind and lying through his teeth. Laughing at you in his head, maybe. One sorcerer in the castle was all well and good -- Arthur might be persuaded, on some far off dream of a day, to have faith in one -- but two, and one of them a woman? Now, that would never do. You think of Merlin watching you, after your year away, like you were some creature of unfathomable wickedness. Something to be destroyed. Or maybe just a mere obstacle to be moved out of the way.

"It may not be your truth to tell, but it is certainly mine," you decide. (How Arthur's heart will break, to be betrayed twice like this. And what a poor king he will look, once the word gets out -- and the word will get out. You'll make sure of that. Why, he'll have no choice but to have the boy executed publically. Excitement thrums through you. You could sing.) "Alice has been saved. Ealdor is out of danger. I'm going to Camelot. You may accompany me, if you wish."

"I don't wish!" Gwen says, laughing incredulously. "Morgana, this is madness. For one thing, how can we be certain the curse is broken? You don't even know what it was. For another, we're both as good as dead the second we set foot there. How do you even plan to--"

"They won't hurt you," you say. "I'll kill the first man who tries, and all the ones who come after him, if any are foolish enough to follow suit. And as for me, I can take care of myself."

Gwen lifts her eyebrows. "Can you?"

It is, you'll admit (to yourself), a fair point.

"If you're there," you add, and the hope in your voice isn't even something you planned.

"I'm not going with you," Gwen declares, arms folded over her chest in a stance of utmost determination.

You tilt your head, ever so slightly.

"I'm not," she says again. She moves to cross her arms, realizes they are crossed already, and settles for putting her hands on her hips instead.

You give her the sweetest and most imploring of smiles.

"Morgana," she says, "I'm not."




Gwen

And, well. It's not as if your mad, still-at-least-slightly-evil wicked witch of a best friend who's hell-bent on some sort of tattle tale vengeance can exactly be expected to look after herself, now, can she?

Comments

[rtms.livejournal.com]

I'm loving this story, you have Morgana down pat as well as Gwen. I love how unhinged Morgana is about everything, yet Gwen is her anchor. If only Morgana would stop dragging her along.

[dollsome.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! :) I'm really enjoying puzzling out how to mend their relationship while still taking into account the fact that Morgana has spent so long being, you know, sadistic and nuts.