To Sunshine Spray, AryaTindomiel, Christina-Potter-09, archangelo137, Talulah Carmichel, red-v0dka, Shellmar, claire3loves3music, StoryGamblette, Kreuse, Kreuz106- everyone who asked for a sequel. Hope you enjoy the story!
The front of war is never as clean as the bards tell it. All meaning and ideals and hopes are crushed underfoot with each clash of the sword, with each dying breath.
Arthur Pendragon has been in too many battles to ever expect anything else.
The tarnished glory of men felled and loot seized dazzle in the glow of peace, but they become a constant in war. The High King of Albion knows this, just as he knows that this war has already been stripped of its moral trappings to leave only a harsh struggle for survival.
Arthur urges his horse onwards, past the charred remains of the last skirmish. The strange fire called upon by Saxon magicians had devastated the first regiment during the battle, burning bodies past recognition, until Merlin had destroyed them and the fuel they used in turn. There seems to be little movement in the Saxon camps; another detachment has been sighted leaving for other targets, but the majority of the invasion force remains facing the Albion army entrenched in the ancient fortress of Glauchedon. And it is there that Arthur heads to now, returning from his daily reconnaissance of the front lines.
"G'damn weather," Gwaine mutters from behind as they gallop on, "the stench is stinking high."
Arthur doesn't take his eyes off the beaten road. "It's better than if it rains. Our water supplies could be tainted."
"It's sweltering," Leon replies, "Hard to believe it's already July."
The half-hearted talk about the weather continues as the small band of knights continues to Glauchedon. The fortress's beaten walls come into view soon enough, and before long they are all dismounted in the courtyard.
Arthur dismisses the knights to allow them some rest. Even if there is no hint of battle for tomorrow, he wants to make sure tiredness is not an issue on top of everything else. Merlin nods and scurries off to somewhere.
He himself goes to the battlements rising high above the walls. All Albion is a battlefield now, with separate legions of Saxon troops besieging citadels. Most of Cornwall's border fiefs dotted along the coast has already fallen, as have the Cantian citadels. The main force may be pinned down by the full force of the united army, but the Saxons have men enough to slowly conquer more and more territory. As High King, Arthur has been ordering troops of various nations to attend to the defense of separate citadels, an effort that has yielded mixed results.
He leans on the stone walls, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands to take the tension from them. The roads leading to Glauchedon are dusty- he can see them from here, outlined by the cluster of tents of camp followers. The citadel has been built to overlook a key junction of the ancient Roman roads; nobody can approach without being spotted.
A lone rider appears, galloping at full speed along the path. The figure is distant at first, but grows closer and closer until the flowing dark hair and green cloak is visible. Arthur would recognize that hair anywhere. Morgana.
Arthur turns from the battlements and strides down the admittedly numerous stairs. He is not rushing down; he's just a little eager to see her is all. But he is not taking the stairs three at a time just because he wants to be the first one to greet her. No, of course not. Even if it has been three months since he last saw her, deployed to Cornwall, and even if he'd looked forward to the weekly reports just to see her handwriting.
And that's why he's not disappointed, not even a tiny little bit- shut up, little Merlin voice inside his head- when he bursts down the final steps, winded, only to see Morgana already talking to Morgause. Because of course why on earth would he have been looking forward to talking to her alone?
He's always been excellent at being in denial.
Unseen, Arthur stops and leans against a wall to wait for his breath to return. He watches the sisters talking as Morgana's horse is led away by one of the stable boys. Morgana looks tired and grubby, dust lining her armor and green cloak and a smear of what seems to be soot on one pale cheek. Only her hair seems clean, a mass of sleek raven tousled by the wind. Her golden-haired sister clasps her on the arm, saying something that Arthur can't hear. Morgana shakes her head, and Morgause nods firmly, then walks off.
Morgana hangs her head a little, then begins walking towards the gates. Arthur steps out into view. To his surprise, she doesn't notice, only brushing past him. He puts a hand on her shoulder, and she flinches and crouches into a battle-ready position, drawing a dagger.
Arthur frowns, putting two hands up in the universal "I don't have anything threatening in my hands, please don't hurt me " gesture. "What happened to your sword?" Admittedly it's not what he was planning to say, but it's enough to make her lower her defenses.
"Your majesty," she nods. "It broke."
Arthur glowers a little at her use of his title, but is distracted by what comes after.
"Your sword broke?"
She smiles tiredly. "Into two pieces." She makes no attempt to explain.
"Morgana," he asks, "what happened?"
The smile drops off. "Tintagel is taken. Cornwall has fallen." The words are clipped, devoid of inflection. But her lips tighten a little as she says it.
Arthur stiffens. "Your father?"
"Sent me here to report to you. He has evacuated all those surviving and set up camp at Fort Trelawne, northernmost of Cornwall. He wished to inform you that he awaits your command. Most of our people are headed towards Escetia and Camelot, for sanctuary."
"And you?"
"I am at your command. You may send me back to my father, if you wish."
He shakes his head. "Stay."
Morgana's eyes flick up to his face. "I am not needed here."
Hesitantly, he takes her hand. "I need...I need somebody to make sure Morgause doesn't kill Alined, and Annis, Bayard."
She nods, her eyes weary. "If you wish it."
He swallows. "Morgana." She looks up. "I swear to you, we will retrieve Cornwall. It will rise again."
She stares at him, and her lips slowly quirk up in a tiny smile. Suddenly, she's in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest. Arthur tries to keep his face from burning up as he holds her.
She's so small. So much power, so much beauty in such a little woman. Morgana seems to have shrunk during the course of this war. She's fragile, he thinks, fragile and lonely and too precious to lose to the battlefield.
She'd throttle him if she ever heard that thought.
An indeterminate pause, and Morgana makes as to move away. He considers tightening his grip, but sighs and lets her go. There are pink marks on her cheek, weak imprints of his chain mail.
He brushes the marks gently. "Are you tired?"
She shakes her head wordlessly, but he can see the lie in her posture.
"You can rest in my chambers while we assign you some decent quarters."
Morgana raises an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "I'm sure some people find that to be indecent. I am, after all, a defenseless young unmarried woman."
He coughs. "I'll just pretend I didn't hear that." He leads the way; it's the first time she's been in Glauchedon, after all, and there's no way she knows where his chambers are.
"I need a bath," Morgana mutters disgustedly behind him. "A bath and some actual clothes."
He smirks. "Is there anything my lady needs?"
She glowers at him. "Apart from the fact that I spent four days in the saddle I am perfectly fine, my lord king. I am sure Cornwall is appreciating my indulgence right now."
She's short-tempered today; her worry and frustration over her nation is masked with annoyance. Arthur rolls his eyes.
"And I'm sure working yourself to death will help Cornwall immensely."
Morgana deflates. "You've been working yourself to death. Have you even slept in the last two days?"
"I'm touched by your concern, Morgana, but I assure you that I do take care of myself. Unlike some people I could mention. This way."
He opens the door to the master chambers, where he is residing at the moment. With so many monarchs assembled in this fort, it had been difficult to figure out a rooming arrangement that would not end in violence or a break to the treaty. Arthur was naturally given the master chambers, and the other royals the household rooms. Adjacent to his rooms were Cenred and Morgause's chambers. Annis and Caerleon were on the other side. He seemed to be surrounded by jointly ruling spouses, and it was more than a little awkward. Cenred and Morgause were loud.
Morgana steps in, not batting an eye at the mess on the table. "Don't have Merlin cleaning for you here?"
A voice pipes up before Arthur can retort. "I gave up on that hopeless venture a long time ago. Morgana, it's good to see you."
Morgana smiles as Merlin looks up from the writing desk. "You're Arthur's secretary now, are you?"
The dark-haired sorcerer grins. "He can't spare me from the magic."
Arthur clears his throat. "Anyway, you may rest here. Do try not to blow anything up."
"I'll do my very best," Morgana drawls. Merlin sniggers.
"I mean it, you know."
Morgana nods, and then bites her lip. "Is there…a stream or anything nearby where I can wash? I do need a bath…"
Arthur blanches. "Bathe outside? You do realize this is a military camp, Morgana? With armies of men around? Deprived of any feminine contact?"
"I'm aware of that, Arthur!" she shouts, flushing. "That's why I'm asking you!"
Merlin cuts in. "As amusing as this argument is, I think it's counterproductive. Morgana, you can bathe here."
Morgana stares at him. He stammers, "...W-without Arthur in here, I mean. Or me. Of-of course not. We'll just be- you know, out there. After I make the bath."
Morgana's either too tired or too desperate for a bath to argue. "Thank you, Merlin."
Arthur scowls. "You can't kick me out of my own chambers!"
Merlin smirks. "Unless you want to stay here..."
Arthur sighs. "Council meeting in two hours," he tosses over his shoulder while he walks out.
"Find Morgana some clothes, would you?" Merlin calls as he prepares to do magic.
Arthur walks out without replying.
Morgana sinks into the steaming tub with an audible sigh. Bathing is a luxury in war, but she can't stand the thought of having to face the monarchs of Albion when she's sooty and dusty.
No need to give them more reasons to look down on Cornwall.
Cornwall. In truth, there is nothing to look down on anymore. She can still hear the clashing of swords behind her as she rode away; her father had ordered her to leave the battle to ensure there was somebody to speak for Cornwall.
It's so stupid. Her father could have come to Glauchedon himself; she could have stayed behind and presided over Fort Trelawne. It's not like she couldn't do it. Since the Blessed Isles quest, Morgana feels as if her father is babying her more and more; keeping her from battles and delegating more and more non-combatant roles.
Morgana's come to acknowledge that she'll never again be an exceptional swordswoman. She'll always be above average, but the shock of the wound ensured that her movements aren't as limber as they used to be. It feels like her father's thinking that she's no longer good enough to keep with him in combat.
She's failed him again. Just like she did with the Dorocha, just like she did with the High Priestess.
Morgana dunks her head into the water. Everything's muted underwater, and she doesn't have to think about problems when her brain's being deprived of oxygen. She rubs at her hair and skin to get the travel-dust out, pulling through the tangles with her fingers. It takes a while until she feels clean and human again. Merlin had thoughtfully left a pat of soap for her, as well as a towel and what looked like a shirt to wear until, as he had put it, "Arthur finally managed to find some decent clothes" for her.
"It'll give him something else to do than fret over everything," Merlin had muttered. Morgana thinks that's ridiculous; how would sending the High King on a quest for clothes make him feel better?
Men and their one-track minds. Morgana smiles a little to herself as she scrubs one last time and steps out of the tub. It's strange, but even just being in Arthur's presence has lifted her spirits. She hums while drying herself. The towel's pink with pompoms, and Morgana grins at that. There's something endearing about even his prattishness. She prays to all the gods that there is enough in him to fulfill his role as High King, because she doesn't know what would be more devastating: seeing Albion fall or seeing him fail. If he fails, it's going to destroy him utterly. She knows she won't be able to bear that-though why it would affect her so, she has no idea.
She shouldn't care. He's not family, not her responsibility, but she'd give her life for him and she doesn't know why. Shaking her head at the strangeness of that thought, she slips on the thick white shirt. It looks to be a man's shirt, the sleeves falling past her hands and the hem to below her knees, but it covers up enough to be relatively decent until she can find better clothes.
Her hair is still dripping, and she picks up the pink towel to dry her hair. Sitting on one of Arthur's chairs, she looks around his room while rubbing at her hair.
It's different from his chambers at Camelot. The messiness aside, it's comfortable enough even if it isn't luxurious as is befitting the High King. It was obviously meant for a married couple; the bed is a behemoth which looks as if it would comfortably fit three people.
Morgana bets Arthur hogs will hog all the blankets when he's married someday.
Arthur married. That's a thought she's not going to ponder right now. Thinking of it as the High King's marriage makes it easier to handle. The High King must marry well; his nuptials are as powerful a negotiating tool as any threat of war. He needs his throne stable, and a marriage could win him lifelong allies. He needs to marry a woman who will solidify his position.
Father probably has set up plans for the High King's marriage already.
The thought leaves a sour taste in her mind. Her hair now only damp, she drops the towel and stands up. She doesn't know how much time has passed, but she wonders when Arthur is going to come back.
Maybe he's been kidnapped by rampaging bears. She' s not going to rescue him.
Arthur curses to himself as he strides down the corridors.
Stupid Merlin. How on earth is he supposed to find women's clothes of all things in this god-forsaken castle? He imagines knocking on Guinevere's door and saying, "Hello, Guinevere, if it isn't too much trouble, can I borrow one of your dresses?".
Not. Going. To. Happen.
Maybe Morgause can lend her sister some dresses. He should probably go to her room and ask her to procure some clothing for Morgana. In fact, he can just get a servant to do it. After all, he is the High King. He has no reason to be rushing about on chores like this for random nobility.
But it's Morgana.
And he still doesn't need to do it personally. And she'd probably laugh at him. And he'd never hear the end of this.
But none of the servants know Morgana's size. It's not like they see her regularly. There's no guarantee that they'll do the job right.
He's already arrived at Cenred and Morgause's chambers.
The servant in the antechamber stammer that Morgause is in the inner chamber, so Arthur waits for her to appear. She sweeps into the room with her usual stately presence.
"My lord. What brings you here?"
"Your sister has arrived in Glauchedon," Arthur begins, hands behind his back. Morgause nods.
"I am aware of that."
"She is currently lacking adequate clothes-would you be able to lend her some?"
Morgause raises an eyebrow. "My lord does realize that it could easily be done by servants?"
He flushes slightly. "I thought you would be best able to provide fitting clothes."
Morgause looks at him appraisingly. Suddenly, she smiles.
"I'm sure I can spare a few dresses. If my lord can wait a little." She goes into her inner chambers and reappears after a little while, holding a cloth bag.
"I must warn you, my lord, that if you hurt my sister in any way, I will find a way to ensure you pay painfully," she comments as she hands it to him.
Arthur blinks. "I'm...sorry?"
"As Morgana's sister, I will tolerate your relationship with her. But I will not tolerate you hurting her in any way," she enunciates.
Arthur feels a little indignant- who said anything about a relationship? And he's legally her liege- she shouldn't be able to talk to him like this. But he's strangely grateful, in some way. Not that he wants to tell Morgause, because it'll just feed the misguided misconceptions she's harboring.
Morgause nods, effectively dismissing him. Arthur blinks again before automatically leaving. It's only after he's walked halfway back to his chambers that he realizes that she's practically commanded him out of her chambers. Morgause's sheer presence is very imperious.
He shakes his head as he walks the remaining way. Well, at least he knows now that Morgause isn't averse to his courting Morgana. Except he wasn't. Courting Morgana, that is. Because that would be...that would be…
Okay, he's going to think about other things now. Like- like the war. There's a war going on. Morgana's here to report on the state of things in Cornwall. If Tintagel has fallen, that can only mean that the Saxons have established their own territory from the coast. With such a stronghold, it will be difficult to drive them out.
He lingers for a bit near the training grounds, watching the knights drill themselves. Men from the Ten Kingdom are training together, and his heart warms a little at the sight. But after around fifteen minutes, he remembers why he was walking around in the first place.
He doesn't quite rush back, but he reaches his chambers faster than he usually would have with that distance. He pushes open the doors to his chambers and enters.
Morgana looks up from one of his books. She raises an eyebrow and he's about to say something when he notices what she's wearing.
More specifically, what she's not wearing. He gapes- because she's in only a man's shirt, and even if it does reach past her thighs it's considered scandalous for women to show their legs, period. And then he flushes, because he realizes it's actually his shirt she's wearing and she looks good in it, and there's something sensual about the way it drapes her form.
Morgana sees the way he's staring and clears her throat.
"Arthur."
He snaps out of it. "Your sister was willing to lend you some decent clothes."
She nods, and takes the bag. He's trying so hard not to look at her, it's rather endearing.
"If you'd leave for one minute?" She requests.
"Huh?" He shakes his head. "Of course, Morgana."
He slips back out and shuts the door behind him, earnestly not imagining her changing inside. He's so earnestly not contemplating that thought that he's startled when she calls out, "You can come back in now, Arthur."
He enters hesitantly. When he sees her, he stares again. It's one of Morgause's red affairs, serviceable and very...impressionable.
"Getting a little flamboyant, are we?" He comments.
Morgana shrugs. "I can't exactly be choosy now, can I?"
Merlin chooses that moment to come in. "Morgana, they've finished clearing out one of the few remaining guest chambers-" he stops short when he sees her. "Wow. You look- wow."
Morgana smiles. "Thank you, Merlin." She turns to Arthur. "At least some people appreciate the dress."
Arthur scowls. "It's Merlin. Since when does he have a sense of style? Show him a woman in skirts and he'll gape."
Morgana rolls her eyes. "Merlin, if you could be so kind as to show me to my chambers?" She curtseys to Arthur. "If you'll excuse me."
Merlin opens the door and leaves first. Before slipping out, Morgana looks back at Arthur. "Thank you for finding me the dresses." She smiles at him before closing the door behind her.
Arthur smiles after her, but wipes it off when he realizes he's doing it.
"The Saxons have overtaken Tintagel; our scouts have confirmed they have established it as their primary base. Tintagel is ideally situated to intercept any movement to the southern coast, as well as between the forts of Cornwall. In essence, Cornwall has fallen completely under their control."
The Council of Kings- called as such though there are two queens involved- have gathered promptly to discuss the new development. Morgana stands proud, defiant, even as she impassively reports on the fall of her nation.
"The remaining forces have retreated to Fort Trelawne, our northernmost citadel. They have begun marching onwards, and there has recently been sighted movement of the majority of the invasion force apparently heading to the Plains of Peredor. A regiment of Cornwall, marching to join forces at Glauchedon, picked the forerunners and camp-setters off, but it is expected that they will attempt to set up camp nearby. It seems they wish to confront our alliance there."
"The Plains of Peredor are less than five leagues from Glauchedon," Arthur notes.
Morgana nods. "They seem to be planning to capture our primary base, then expand outwards. They will keep the Cornwall area as a base for their movement, but they seem to be underestimating our capacity to meet them in battle."
Bayard sets down his goblet. "We shall meet them head-on, show them that we are no mean foe. The blood of the Saxons will water the plains, give sustenance to the trees. We are Albion, and no barbarian invaders shall find us a wanting adversary."
He takes a breath, and Annis cuts in before he can turn his monologue into a full-blown speech. Arthur gives her a grateful look.
"There is no reason to meet them on their own terms. We can lead them to battlegrounds where we are greatly advantaged. Charging headlong into an evenly matched battle is foolish, especially with many of our forces spread out fighting to reclaim different citadels," she says.
Alined of Clarence nods, his fingers forming a tent. "Indeed, there's no need to pursue such a...profitless venture. It'd only deplete our treasuries while giving no clear outcome."
Rodor's son, Keredic of Nemeth, shakes his head. "But we need to show them our mettle. They'll be more brazen, more openly aggressive, if we don't teach them a lesson."
"It could be a chance to test the waters," Godwyn offers. "We have at least even odds."
"I'm not risking the lives of my men on a hopeless cause," Cenred states. "Show me we have winning odds, and I'll follow."
Olaf grunts. "I don't see any other choice. They're already marching here, aren't they? I say the only thing to do is meeting them in a frontal battle."
"Hear, hear!" Bayard shouts.
Morgause tosses her golden hair over her shoulder. "There's no need for reckless enthusiasm. Is there no other way to meet them? I dislike the odds of this."
"Peredor is the only place where both armies will meet on equal terms," Odin rumbles. "They won't attack Glauchedon, just as we won't attack Tintagel at full force."
"It's a clear move on the Saxons' part to show that they are determined to conquer the entirety of Albion," Morgana comments. "If they wished, they could have simply bypassed us to loot the villages and left. Instead, they challenge us directly. They want to be the rulers of Albion, and they're starting by challenging the sovereigns of the land."
Annis's son Bedwyr pipes up. "And we'll show them just how bad an idea that is. We have just as great a chance to triumph as them, and we know the lay of the land."
Morgana shakes her head exasperatedly. "The lay of the land will make no difference when it's a flat plain for leagues, and both armies are heading for frontal battles. We have no great advantage."
"But our men have fought in these conditions," Bedwyr argues. "who knows what it's like in wherever they came from?"
Arthur holds up a hand before the discussion can degenerate into an argument about whether the Saxon armies were disadvantaged or not. "The Saxons mean for us to meet them in a full frontal battle. Rodor, Godwyn, recall your forces attacking the captured citadels. We will meet their attack as a unified force, on the Plains of Peredor. In the meantime, Escetian forces and the Cornwall regiment will weaken them with raids on the camp-setters, sabotaging their attempts."
"Why Escetian?" Cenred questions. "Seems like a risky venture, to me."
Arthur acknowledges him, his displeasure at the open disrespect for his authority shown only through a tightening of his lips. "Escetian troops are renowned to be the swiftest in both attack and retreat, especially since the beginning of your reign. Their mobility suits them best to this task."
Cenred shrugs, apparently mollified by the compliment. No further objections are made.
"We march for Peredor tomorrow. Prepare your troops accordingly," Arthur commands. The monarchs bow, and one by one excuse themselves to do what is needed.
Morgana stays behind, walking over to where Arthur is leaning his head on the back of his chair.
"Do you believe we'll win?"
Arthur sweeps a hand across his hair. "We'll see soon enough."
She tilts her head. "Then you're not certain."
He glares at her. "When can you ever be?" he asks.
She lowers her eyes. "As you say, my lord." She looks at him. "My father awaits your orders."
"I will notify him soon," he replies. She nods, then sweeps out.
He doesn't know how this will end. But this path to war will be bloody, no matter the outcome.
"Troops, move out!" Arthur orders, his voice pitched to be heard by all the men. Columns of dust rise as the soldiers march out of Glauchedon to the skeleton camp already set up. It is midmorning, and the full force of United Albion leaves for Peredor.
The die has been cast. There's no turning back now.