INTO THE FIRE
He was like her father; next of kin. He was nearly twice her age, almost old enough, really, to be a grandfather. He was arrogant, he was selfish, he was annoying, he was painfully oafish, terribly insulting, crude, barbaric, sardonic, and patronizing. He made so much noise when he ate that it was borderline repulsive, and she literally could not imagine anyone holding him in anything but high disgust. That he did not have more political enemies floored her; that he did not marry a second time did not surprise her; that he had alienated his son and half his kingdom pleased her.
That he stared at her half the time during dinner, too, pleased her, more than she thought was possible.
Morgana was a woman of principle. She had standards. She had notions of true love and fantasies of children and marital life just like any other young girl. Ever since she had been a little stripling running alongside Gorlois' horse, Morgana had known that she wanted a man to be just like her father, that she wanted a strong, brave, fierce man who treated her as an equal. She was an intelligent woman, and passing fair, which made her an extremely valuable asset, at least in her mind. She should have been more valued than she was.
But he valued her.
She knew he did.
He couldn't look at her like that and not value her.
And yet, it was not a look of love, or even lust, that crossed his scarred visage when he flicked his watery blue eyes in her direction. It was pain. An unbidden, angry pain that flared up behind his face and left him bereft of his senses. It was an agony, the powers of which he could have never hoped to subdue. The tempest of the heart could never be so easily tamed. A wounded heart, as well, had an even more difficult time of it, and Uther's heart was nothing if not pepped with the selfsame scars that formed a sort of morbid framework on his face. With each physical scar, there was a matching emotional one––and, sometimes, there were scars which were solely imprinted on his heart, carried like a curse from the scars of others. He was blighted with scars, maligned with troubled waters, strung so tightly from political and personal stressors…and, sometimes, it was easier to succumb. Sometimes, it was easier to just look at that bright, shining face across the table from him; a living testimony that sometimes, his scars weren't so much of a curse after all.
Morgana couldn't resent him. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't find it within her heart to truly hate him. There were times when she came close; times where she felt with every fibre of her being that if she did not scream, or else hit him, she might very well explode, but those times were when she felt the most impassioned, the most invigorated. He had the power to move her to such emotional heights that it nearly frightened her. She knew not her own strength, nor his to test it. But, in that way, it was almost as if they were made for one another, Morgana and Uther. Scarcely had she reached womanhood before she had realized the truth of this supposition. She was the fire to his ice, the passion to his apathy, the wisdom to his bravery. They were everything and yet nothing to one another; their entire lives had been structured around building this paradox.
Uther, she said, testing him.
Morgana, he replied, testing her.
They shared a private glance, so loud with meaning that the entire table rippled with silence, ensnared by the oneness of the two figureheads, of the unity shown in that single, second-long glance.
My chicken is cold, Uther said, frowning and standing from the table.
Morgana subtly pushed away her own plate, got up, and followed him.