Prologue
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Hate must make a man productive.
Otherwise one might as well love.
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It was raining, pouring actually, and that was not necessarily a bad thing because Morgana loved storms. It was one of the few things she still loved really. She had become much like a summer storm, many could say, dark and dismal, terrifyingly beautiful with brief moments of illumination that lasted no more than a second, growing few and far between as it progressed. She never had a problem with rain, getting wet, I mean. She and Arthur had spent the better half of their youth skipping mud puddles and catching raindrops on their sovereign tongues. Arthur, she couldn't bring herself to remember any pleasant memories of her once closest friend, for she feared the stone shell she had worked so hard to perfect over the past year would shatter before her pale green eyes and that the rumor she was nothing but hollow would be proven true. It was a rumor she started herself.
Morgause had made her that way, many could argue, but she knew better. Morgana knew it was Merlin who had turned her beating heart to stone, because it was he and he alone who had prepped her very soul to be destroyed by filling her with false hopes of better days, better days and poison that is.
She wiped away her damp cheeks, blaming the weather for the translucent streaks of liquid below her cold and determined eyes. Morgana did not cry, not anymore. A thick bolt of lightening spooked her handsome white steed, a gift from that bastard King Uther Pendragon, reared up and released a frightened nay. She hushed the beast, petting his strong neck. She had gone to meet Morgause again, a decision she now regretted after receiving little news and now nearly being tossed from her horse. She had successfully reached the outskirts of Camelot when the rain began to fall so harshly that she could no longer see more than a few yards before her and neither could horse. A dim glow could be seen in the distance, a local pub no doubt. Climbing down from her new leather saddle, Morgana led her horse towards the pub she had decided to seek solace in until the rain ceased.
After tying the horse within the covered stable, Morgana contemplated whether or not she would go inside the small establishment that was undoubtedly inhabited by people, something she found less than bearable nowadays. However, as soon as an earsplitting roar of thunder brought a rare chill up her spine, she reluctantly conceded and headed for the entrance. It was as she expected, a few patrons and a simple bartender and barmaid to hold down the fort. Two elderly men spoke in hushed voice in a far corner, speaking of their youth and the welfare of their children no doubt. A shaggy haired man sat with his back turned to the raven-haired beauty, sipping his ale and fiddling with a piece of parchment and a quill. In the opposing corner a rambunctious group of men, who were too old to be as drunk as they were, sat laughing and carrying on in a disgusting manner.
Morgana pulled up a chair as far away as any of the occupants as humanly possible, pulling down her soaking wet green hood. The obnoxious group of men became abruptly quiet, looking over at her as if she was the last slab of meet. Rolling her eyes, she ordered a mug of warmed mead from the plump barmaid to rid herself of the cold chill that encompassed her being.
Sipping slowly on her drink, Morgana slowly allowed the spicy liquid to bring about a comforting warm tingle that almost brought a smile to her icy expression, a genuine smile, one that actually reached her eyes. She fought it off, however, focusing on the carvings upon the wooden table top. Her fingertips traced the name Edward,wondering what had possessed the man to write his name in such a place. She had been so distracted with her nonsensical made up tales of Edward's life that she didn't notice the large man hovering over her on the other side of her table for one. He was an obese man, ten or so years past his prime, when his rolls of skin had once contained muscles. His dark eyes struggled to focus, hazy from too much ale and what remained of his short and peppered hair was askew. He sent her a lopsided smile and winked. Morgana released a purposely audible huff, rolling her eyes in annoyance.
"What?" she snapped viciously in tone that could freeze a sober man's soul.
"Why hello, love," he said, his balance swaying ever so slightly. "What brings you to such a disgraceful establishment?"
His two other friends looked approvingly at the wobbling drunk, sure that he would succeed in bedding her or something equally disgusting.
"That is none of your concern," she hissed. "Now, leave me be."
"Oh, come now," he cooed. "No need to be hostile, love. I'm only being friendly."
He leaned in and confidently lifted one of her perfectly wavy locks and curled it around his sausage-like finger. Morgana instantly swatted him away, fighting the urge of her magic that tended to show itself when she was infuriated. He was unaffected by her rejection. If anything, he was more determined to woo her than before. Morgana gripped her dagger under the table, giving the man one more chance to let her alone before she would strike. Her teeth were grinding against each other in her mouth, narrowing her gaze. Just as she was about to pull out her weapon, someone intervened. It was the faceless man who was sitting with his back to her when she first entered.
He was undeniably handsome, no matter how hard she tried to think him unattractive. He had a cheeky grin that reminded her of Arthur for some reason and irked her in the same manner. The handsome man gripped the bulbous wrist of the other man, yanking his hand back from Morgana.
"Oi, mate," he began with humor in his voice. "I don't think the lady is looking for any new friends."
"Piss off," the large man grunted. "This is none of your concern."
"Fine, let's let her speak for herself," said the good-looking rogue. "Milady, are you appreciating the attention this kind fellow is bestowing upon you?"
"No," she spat.
"Sorry, mate," he smirked. "I was really rooting for you."
The obese man pulled his hand away from his opposition and reluctantly trudged with some effort back to his two friends who were now in a fit of hysterics. Morgana rolled her eyes again and returned to her drink as before. She didn't expect the shaggy haired bloke to join her, nor did she invite him. She groaned and looked over at him with a nasty look across her face while he grinned back at her, as utterly unaffected as the other stranger.
"I'm not looking for any new friends," she sighed. "You said it yourself."
"What a coincidence," he teased, "Neither am I."
"Tell me...?"
"Gwaine," he answered.
"Lovely," she said sarcastically. "Tell me, Gwaine, do you typically get involved in situations that are none of your concern?"
"One of my favorite pastimes, I must admit," he grinned.
"How utterly fascinating," she said in an unamused tone. "That must make you a favored patron."
"Ah, now I don't think I can even manage to bring myself to respond to such a statement," he chuckled. "I've learned responding to sarcasm only gets me into trouble."
"And I'm sure you do all you can to avoid trouble," she smirked and not in the villainous manner she had become accustomed to.
"Yet it still manages to find me," he smiled, nodding towards her.
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