Something Borrowed
gwenxmorgana
canon-AU, what-if
ficlet by yllimilly
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Gwen rifles through silky garments to find out just what colour would best bring out both both the renowned fairness of her lady's skin tone and the ridiculous turquoise hem of that evening dress that they both dislike - why is it that Morgana isn't trying harder to look her best tonight? - when cold fingers brush against her neck, in passing, then retreat to Gwen's nape, fastening an unannounced necklace. The cold pendent slides about Gwen's chest, sending the little hairs on her forearms rise, then settles a right below the gap between her collarbones.
Those same fingers grab her shoulders to make her twirl and meet their owner's affable gaze. Gwen is quick to break eye contact.
The pendent is a thick, purple opal that Gwen can't remember ever having seen before. She is at a loss for words. Morgana remains silent, musing appreciatively.
Gwen resists the urge to reach for the cold gem lying on her chest. "I'm the one supposed to dress you up," she protests meekly. "Besides, I can't possibly wear this," she adds as she lifts her arms to reach out to unfasten the necklace. She can't very well ask her Lady to do it for her.
But Morgana already has her wrists in her grasp and lowers them, gently, before stepping back and folding her arms. "You're right," she concedes, amusement ringing in her voice, "black is much better."
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Sometimes Gwen likes to step back from the situation she is in just to take in the absurdity of life, and life at court especially. Now, as she is clad in the yellow uniform indicative of her position, standing at attention by the wall of the dining room with the other servants, now is one of those times.
This banquet required that Arthur and his men go hunt a boar, that the city's entire supply of produce be drained from its markets for that day, and that the families of servants come to the castle and help them prepare the feast a full day in advance. The whole city is playing matchmaker for this third son of a distant King and the Lady Morgana, and all they are doing is talking politics, chess, horseback riding and everything in between. If eyes could touch, then the handsome foreigner would be lying unconscious on the floor, undressed and forcefully taken, without respite, by every noble female in Morgana's entourage.
Yet Morgana seems to be the only one not to notice the young man's plump lips, smiling eyes and quietly imposing stature; the finesse of his sense of humour, the extent of his knowledge, the dexterity of his banter… The heiress gives Gwen another of those sideway glances that make her stomach flip, as she makes a particularly good point on the importance of not letting blacksmiths be trained in only one specialization. Gwen retorts with a look meant to be stern, imploring; but Morgana simply answers with a gaze so delighted the suitor himself is forced to glance in the servant's direction. He is lingering longer than necessary on Gwen's form, on the poorly concealed opal adorning her chest, and she wishes her uniform was muted brown like the stone wall behind her, rather than the sunny ochre her Lady likes so much.
The conversation resumes, seamlessly, but it isn't of the same fabric as before. Morgana's offhand manners do not seem to irk him in the least. He sits back, making room for more helpings of wine, throws more or less serious theories on the history of horse breeding, and from then on his gaze is flickering all over the room. And the whole room is either holding their breath at Morgana's every comeback or drinking from the suitor's lips.
Uther is uncharacteristically silent. His servants should know better than to offer him more wine to ease his disposition when he is clenching his jaw as he does. He would normally have jumped in the argument by now, if only to shush the unseasoned pair's unbelievably idiotic stance on childrearing, but the king has hosted too many of these parties, and Morgana has too few years ahead of her, that he is willing to bear with his ward's fruitless prattle, hoping that some dramatic turn of events might take place. While he won't admit it to anyone, he wouldn't bat an eye is some benevolent sorcerer cast a spell on the duo, if it could make this costly visit end according to plan.
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Lights are out.
Gwen is standing by the night stand, waiting to be properly dismissed.
She can't quite go past the feeling that there is something she could have done, or that she did not do, and that could have prevented the suitor from opting to go spar with the knights rather than spend the evening with the Lady Morgana as the convention dictates. But again, for convention's sake, Morgana spent the evening watching the men fight, cheering for everyone of them in turn, except of course for Arthur, who received her harshest criticism. The evening turned into a party where Morgana had Gwen running around for old wines and fruits and cured meats and now Gwen is simply exhausted from all the smiles, the errands, and Morgana's constant demands for her attention.
She wants to do nothing but run home to her father, whose mundane anecdotes would gladly shake off the scent of nobility off her mind and the feeling that something is amiss. What exactly she doesn't know, but one thing is certain: Morgana shouldn't be taking her future so lightly.
"Gwen!" The light tone makes her name sound like the beginning of a song. "Look." Morgana is rubbing her thumb against the gentle curves of the pendent.
"It's still warm."
And now the pendent is in Gwen's hand, and it is indeed warm, and Morgana's fingers were, too.
"Milady…" She encapsulates the borrowed gem in her hands, steadying them. She lowers her voice, but not the extent of her concern. It isn't her place to counsel, no matter how much reassurance Morgana needs from Gwen on the prettiness of her hairdo, or the cuteness of an earring.
But ultimately, the Lady's well-being is her priority, and so Gwen feels justified to speak her mind. "You can't go on like this forever."
Morgana is taking the pendent back, her fingers lingering a little longer than necessary on Gwen's, who wonders why it is that her mistress's hands are so unusually warm tonight.
"But I don't want to get married," Morgana says airily.
Gwen's eyes widen and cast a furtive glance to the closed door, to the open window. "You can't-" she begins, urgently, eyes scanning Morgana's face haphazardly, unable to quite land on any point of her moonkissed features, heart sinking at the possibility that they might be overheard.
Morgana's teeth are gleaming through her sliver of a smile. She takes Gwen's fisted hand in her own and beckons the maid to lean close to her.
"No, Gwen, listen to me," her eyes are smiling now that she knows she has Gwen's full, distressed attention, "I don't want - to get married..."
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written for camelot-drabble at LJ, prompt: whispers in the dark