tomorrow you'll be worlds away
by: amoenavi
A/N: Written as a Morgana drabble for unoriginal_liz on LJ. First venture into the Merlin sandbox. Pre-series (sort of) where Arthur is less jackass and more trusting of Uther.
-x-x-
Sometimes it snows in Camelot, but mostly it rains. And, on occasion, it's sunny and not dreadful and you can feel the sun in your bones when Gwen wakes you up. Arthur orders Gwen to always wake you on sunny days, tells her to make sure you're awake and dressed by the time he comes to force you to help him practice for his latest tournament (not that he'll admit to being helped by a girl) and Gwen can't say no to Arthur.
You're not entirely sure you can either.
You almost slip in the mud, heels sliding and slipping, but right yourself quickly and dodge his thrust. You may not be very strong, but you're fast. The sky's a grey shade of blue and the trees are ready for a downpour.
"It's going to rain," you say casually, swiping a piece of black hair from your face as he lunges at you again. Arthur huffs.
"But the tournament's tomorrow," he whines. It's been three months since he's questioned you about your freakishly accurate weather forecasting. He crosses his arms over his chest awkwardly, sword in one hand, eyeing you. "I don't believe it."
He stays still and you circle him, unable to stop moving. "Really?"
His head turns to follow you. "Yes, I think you're wrong."
"Really," you repeat, standing in front of him and stepping forward into his personal space. It's a game you like to play and you always play to win. "And would you be willing to bet on that?"
He steps forward, smirking. He plays to win as well. "I'd be willing to bet our entire kingdom on it." His eyes glitter and you're really uncomfortable with the way he said 'our kingdom'. "Why – wouldn't you, Morgana?"
You frown, letting your heavy wooden sword fall to the ground. "What's your real wager, Arthur?"
Arthur tosses his sword from hand to hand. "I want you to call me 'highest and most handsome prince' for an entire day if I win." He strikes an exaggerated 'heroic' pose, showcasing his profile: the hard line of his jaw, the set of his lips, the angle of his cheekbone. Which… aren't bad. They're just very boyish and adolescent and you don't like adolescent boys. So.
"I want your horse," you say before you even realize you're saying it. He opens his mouth to angrily protest and you continue on, "Not for forever, just for one ride. I want to leave for a day or so."
Arthur looks at you, a blank expression on his face. "You want to leave," he says flatly and you know he's not just talking about your day excursion.
You nod because it's not worth a lie.
"Before it all gets really good?" You raise a skeptical eyebrow because it won't get better – that's your entire point. "Morgana," with that voice, the one he's used throughout your shared childhood – the one that says 'you're being ridiculous and I'm always right so just agree with me already'. You don't know if you love or hate that voice. "It'll be much better when we're ruling. None of this 'have Morgana back before dark, Arthur', 'leave the poor girl alone, Arthur', 'don't fight the king's ward, Arthur' rubbish." His blue eyes roll toward the sky and then back down to meet yours. "We'll be better."
You make yourself believe him (because what else is there?) even though your heart is stuck in your throat at the certainty with which he said "we".
Marriage is (always has been and always will be) a bit of an issue with you.
You know you must marry someone (or risk becoming an old spinster, God forbid). It's always been a bit fuzzy though, that future marriage. A faceless king, faceless and variable amounts of children, a fantasy place – all incredibly unreal. But - Arthur.
Marrying Arthur.
Suddenly you can see it.
And there it is, your future laid out so carefully in front of you like an atlas. Stay on the path, don't dillydally, follow the rules, be a lady. If you're suitable, you will be queen. You could be a Pendragon forever and never want for anything at all (never have to leave).
But you're restless, moreso than most men your age. You want excitement and danger and chaos, the thrum of magic beating in your chest.
Camelot is… a lot of things.
Exciting surely, you think, craning your neck to look into the crowded market, watching the citizens barter and shout at each other underneath a shop cover. Where else could possibly be more exciting?
You don't know.
Dangerous, of course, you recall dreams of Arthur (stupid, arrogant Arthur) being run through by a sword. Why should you want for more danger?
You can't say.
Chaotic – well, what could be more chaotic than dragons and magic and old wives' tales that come true?
You aren't sure.
You do know one thing and it's a very dangerous thing to know – you know that you want to stay here, with him and Uther and Gwen and him, but you can't. When you think of becoming queen and living in the castle forever and bearing sons and not using magic and nightmares that come true and a husband (oh God) who can never know, it feels like your entire body is vibrating. Vibrating so quickly that it feels like you're both standing still and moving at the speed of light, torn in between the fantasy and the reality and you can't – you just can't live that way.
"You'll be better," you say instead, smiling softly as you back away. He asks you where you're going – he's still got to practice!
He doesn't notice that you're already gone.
-x-x-