Originally written as a secret-Santa gift for the exchange at merlin_santa, a Livejournal community.
Push, pull, push, pull, push, pull. Thread into needle, needle into fabric, and then back out again. This is the rhythm of Guinevere's life. Like the stitches on a yard of silk, small and strong, she knows what holds them all together. So it is not by chance that she—of all of them—is the first to see the threads unraveling.
-
The first time Morgana ever went to the markets in the lower town, it was her tenth birthday. She had taken in the sights and the sounds—and oh, the smells—with wide, unbelieving eyes. It seemed impossible that the world held so much to see and do, and she'd been kept from it all. By Uther.
She shot Uther a withering look, putting all of her disappointment into it. but he only smiled and shrugged off her anger, so she put it away for another day, and settled for a small pout and a sniffle. Uther laughed.
"Come, let's buy you something. A trinket of some sort?" he asked, pointing to a stall where a wizened old man was selling strange and wonderful things. There were perfumes made from flowers Morgana had never heard of before, bells that chimed in the gentle breeze, even glass beads that glowed with all the colors of the rainbow when they caught the sunlight.
She nearly tripped in her delight, Uther catching her before she fell. "Yes, let's get something!"
The old vendor smiled indulgently and bowed low as he saw Uther, pleased at the honor of serving the king. Uther fingered a few items, polite and indifferent, but Morgana was ecstatic. She picked up a string of the glass beads and squealed when they glowed as green as her dress. "I want these!"
Uther nodded absently, his attention turning to the guards milling around in the marketplace. The vendor regarded Morgana through narrowed eyes, and gasped. He snatched the beads out of her hand.
She gaped at him and he looked away in apology, muttering under his breath.
He turned his attention to Uther. "I'm sorry, sire. But these are not for sale."
"Yes, well…" Uther looked uncertain, and Morgana frowned, scrubbing at her eyes to keep the tears away. "Perhaps something else, Morgana?"
"No, I want those." She stomped her feet, knowing that usually meant she'd get her way. But the old man only shook his head, sad and stubborn.
Uther sighed and led her away gently, but as they moved on, Morgana felt a tug at her sleeve.
"I could make you one. Just like that. If you want." The girl who spoke had bright eyes and the friendliest smile Morgana had ever seen. She liked her instantly.
"Yes, I'd like that."
"I'm Guinevere. You can call me Gwen."
Morgana laughed. "My name's—"
"I know you name. Everyone does."
-
It's only a frayed edge at first, a loose thread. Gwen does not pay it much mind. Wear-and-tear is the way of things, after all. She's tempted to pull at the thread and set everything to rights, but wisely, she restrains herself, knowing that a single thread out of place can ruin a whole tapestry. It's the beginning of the end, she thinks, but if she can, she'll keep it at bay just a little longer.
-
Gwen woke to the sound of Morgana screaming. She sighed and rushed to her lady's bedside, a cool cloth at the ready for Morgana's fevered brow. She'd been ill, but the screams were not from the sickness. Morgana had dreams so intense and terrifying, she could barely speak of them after she woke.
Gaius's draughts had helped, but only up to a point. The medicine lulled Morgana into believing the dreams would go away, and every night, she fell into a serene sleep, only to be cruelly woken a few hours later. Gwen felt great pity for Morgana, and despite being told to go home for the night, she always stayed, just to be sure everything was alright.
Morgana cowered pathetically, and in the too-large bed, she looked tiny, almost frail. Gwen felt a sudden pang, not just of sympathy, but of something deeper. It was a bond forged by a shared pain, loyalty bought with love and friendship, and in that moment, Gwen felt it would last forever.
She pressed her lips gently to Morgana's forehead and stayed by her side until the tremors subsided and Morgana fell asleep. I will always be here for you.
-
There is a rip now in the fabric of their lives, and though Gwen tries hard to mend it, the hole keeps getting bigger and bigger, until there is almost nothing left. She keeps a brave face, but when she is finally alone, she weeps for all they have lost.
-
Morgana looked out the window, surveying her new domain. Camelot was quiet, as if a death pall had come over it, and she resented all those who would not simply bow to her will. If the people suffered, it was only their own fault. Her long night had finally ended, and she could now claim what was hers by right. But Camelot's night was just beginning, and if the people wished for a new dawn, they would have to acknowledge her openly.
She'd been warned this would be difficult. Though Uther was no prince, he'd been a good king in his own way, and the people still seemed to honor him. Neither she nor Morgause could understand quite how he'd won their hearts, but it was clear that fear had been one of his tools, and Morgana was more than willing to scare her people to their knees, if that was all that was left to her.
She turned to see Gwen tidying up her room, and Morgana frowned, wondering how to solve this particular puzzle. Gwen's loyalties were with Arthur, that much was clear. But she was still here, not having taken the opportunity to flee the town, as so many others at court had. It was hard to know Gwen's game, because she gave away so little. Still, Morgana thought, part of the fun was in cracking the nut that could not be broken.
She played on Gwen's loyalty, on her promise to always be there, and Gwen agreed without a trace of reluctance. It had all been fabulously easy. Of course she knew Gwen was lying, and not just because Morgause had tipped her off. Morgana knew Gwen, understood how her mind worked. There was nothing that would keep Gwen from Arthur now, except for a bit of subterfuge and some veiled threats.
But when they embraced to seal their bond and to promise everlasting friendship, Morgana felt doubt, a small pang at the harm she would do Gwen one day. It was a lament for another time, when things were simpler, and a queen could befriend a maid, like her, even love her. But those days were gone, and now there was only bitter triumph and hollow victory.
She let Gwen go. It was the most—and the least—she could do.
-
Gwen sees the banner of the Pendragons flying high above the castle. It is dirty and tattered, but proud and unwavering in the high winds. This fabric, she knows, will never be torn. It is Camelot.