Prisoners
"She's an impostor," he had said, looking into her beautiful, cold eyes as she was forced to kneel on the floor of the throne room. "She obviously is," he had said again, looking at his guards, and they believed him.
She had looked at him with something between relief and offence, and he had ignored her.
"We are sorry, Prince."
Of course they believed him. He knew her better. He was their prince. Soon to be King. Whatever he said was right, was law.
"Don't," he had said when they tried to take her away. "I'll free her myself. Leave her."
But a month came and went and she never left the walls of the castle. Arthur isolated her in a cell of the west tower and he was careful that no one should know of her presence. Her fiery, passionate, poison-spitting presence.
Oh, she was so angry, chained in there. Cutting through him with her words every time he came to her to bring food.
"Why do you hide me here?" she asked him once. "Are you scared the druids will crush you to take me back? Oh, you scared little thing!" He was not scared – not of druids anyway – and he ignored both her question and her insult.
"Am I to wait even longer for my death sentence?" she asked again. "Is this a subtle move to torture me? You won't see me cry from fear." He didn't want her to die, nor did he wish for her to cry, and he ignored both her question and her accusation.
Every now and then Arthur would ask for the furniture in a room to be changed, and he made sure he took away whatever was changed out. Every now and then he made some bottle of oil from his wife's rooms disappear, or a cushion from his own. And soft covers and dresses. Just the way he used to when he and Morgana built their little forts.
He barely spoke to her, even when he arrived with new things to make her cell more comfortable; and when her anger met no reply but his sad blue eyes her hate and her reasons were lost to her and she too was reduced to silence.
Once, two weeks from the day she had been imprisoned in the west tower, he went to her and watched her insulting him once more. He waited for her to run out of words, and then reached for her shoulders, letting his hands slide down her arms.
"How dare you!" She was soon enraged again even as he tried to still her with his hands.
"Stop yelling," he said patiently.
"Does your stupid wife not arouse you enough?"
"It's not proper for you to say that." He was getting truly annoyed by her attitude now.
"I might be your prisoner, but I'm not your slave!" she yelled. "You touch me and I'll kill you!" Her threats were pointless, they both knew.
"That's not what I'm trying to do," he said, trying to keep his composure, but she was screaming again and in frustration he covered her mouth with one hand, pushing her down to lie on the quilt that covered the cold stone of the floor.
She was looking at him with eyes full of outrage, and he felt like smiling. They used to do something like this in another life. A happier one.
"I'm not trying to take advantage of you, so stop screaming. You'll only end up giving both of us a headache," he said staring into her eyes, trying to not notice their colour.
He slowly took back his hand and she looked at him with suspicion. Arthur touched her arms again and she seemed to realize he was massaging them – after all, she had been chained to the wall for weeks and her muscles were sore.
She watched him with sadness and hate while he completed his task. Once he had finished, he chained her ankles and freed her wrists.
It happened time and time again. Arthur came to her and touched her with care and devotion, massaging her arms or her legs, and she felt herself full of longing and hate.
Sometimes he brought with him books and poems, and he read to her – and then left the books, and candles along with them so that she could read alone when she wanted to escape the cell at least in her mind. That was the only way he could free her.
Morgana would not admit she waited for him to come, but she did.
After the first month, when Arthur went to her he no longer heard her scream. So when he reached the stairs of the west tower one day and heard her scream his first instinct was to run to her because she was in danger, he knew it.
The covers beneath her were burning because of a candle that had fallen to the ground. He extinguished the young fire with his bare hands, fearing it would grow more if he took time to fetch the water.
"Are you alright?" he asked her with concern, still kneeling in front of her, with his burned hands open as if he were praying. "Morgana, tell me you are alright," he repeated, because she was stunned and trembling.
Morgana just reached for his hands, and he tried to not give away his pain. "You're hurt," she said, staring at his hands.
"It's not so bad" he answered.
"Will someone heal them?" she asked, looking in his eyes, even if there was no need to.
"Yes," he said, and the two of them were so close that he could feel their warm breath mixing together.
Arthur saw Morgana lower her head to kiss his burned hands. He closed his eyes, feeling the freshness of her lips and the relief of her nearness. And when her lips touched his own, all he felt was his pain shattering in his chest. He held her in his arms, covering her with his own body and his lips on the blanketed floor.
Oh, he loved Guenevere, he did, but when they were together they were one and one and peace never came. And the taste of eternity seemed to rest on Morgana's lips – he had chased that eternity all his life so he could not let her go now.
After long minutes of slow, passionate kisses and caresses he reached for her chains, to free her. So she could take whatever was happening to the point she decided she wanted.
"You're taking a risk," she warned him, but he only looked at her with no reply. And when he was about to insert the key she put her hand on his.
"There is no need to," she said simply, lying back down.
Arthur looked at her. So beautiful, so lovely. Who was the prisoner and who the tormentor?