Chapter Seven
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Morgana was sitting in the library, rereading The Art of War for the umpteenth time, preparing in a frantic rush for the inevitable: a war with the Saxons. It was the moment she had been waiting for her all her life – the moment which carried in itself the possibility to reclaim her crown. While most people dreaded war, sometimes, she thought, it was the only solution. In this case, morbidly enough, she was looking forward to it.
Suddenly, a servant entered, snapping her out of her reverie, and bowed before the Queen before saying, "Your Majesty," the young girl greeted her, "I've come to inform you that the painting of Guillaume d'Amiens has arrived, and Master Hugo has sent couple of poems he sent over to you to review, to help him decide which one to publish. More gifts are set to arrive within the week, but the other artists have requested more time to deliver their work, so as to ensure they're all of the highest quality."
Morgana burst into a most pleased smile. "Thank you," she said, "Now walk with me." This time, her smile was meant as a subtle encouragement directed at the visibly distressed girl. Morgana suddenly couldn't recall ever having seen her around the Castle, and presumed she was new and therefore understandably still fidgety around the new Queen.
Queen. Huh. The word felt alien on her lips in relation to herself. She had long ago lost hope of ever becoming one. Now, if only she could be the Queen of the country she really wanted…
Before leaving, Morgana called over to the librarian – an old scribe who doubled as a monk in his free time and was presently poring over the Scriptures – to refrain from putting away the books she had picked out, as she was planning to return to finish her reading after she reviewed her newly arrived gifts.
"What time is it?" she asked the servant as they began their way over to the Throne Room.
"I – uh, I left the kitchens at around half past eleven, Your Majesty," the girl replied nervously, "You still have two hours before the pheasants arrive to bring their petty squabbles before the Throne."
Morgana remarked to herself that Castle servants tended to consider themselves something not quite defined, but certainly above a common pheasant, judging by the distaste with which they pronounced the very class they themselves were from. If such illusions helped her cope with her servitude, Morgana thought, she didn't want to be the one to illuminate her.
Morgana had decided to keep this little tradition of Uther's (inviting pheasants to the Castle once a week and allow them to present their problems to him) for the very same reason she had overnight become a great patron of the arts: she and Arthur were young and inexperienced, and with the powerful Uther gone, they were a clear target for anyone with lofty ambitions. She wanted her nation's support, because - obviously - a king disliked by his subjects was easier to overthrow. She also thought it wiser to attempt to avert a crisis before it happened than struggle to deal with it once it has.
And if there was one thing her parents' betrayal had taught her, it was that everybody wanted to rule the world, and danger abounded even in such relatively peaceful circumstances. Whenever she voiced such concerns to Arthur, however, he simply brushed them off as mere paranoia; regardless, Morgana remained unwavering in her conviction that no one, not even the Crown's oldest friends, could be trusted. If they smelled even the tiniest whiff of weakness emanating from Arthur, they would strike.
Oftentimes, Morgana found herself pondering whether the concerns Uther had expressed in relation to his son on that night he had made her his offer, wondering if his dissatisfaction with Arthur didn't come from a place of parental severity but from honest, unbiased assessment of Arthur's qualities.
In their adolescence, Morgana had certainly shared Uther's views on Arthur: the current King used to be volatile, rebellious, uncontrolled, lazy and jealous, amongst other, similarly unflattering things. But beneath the protective shell – as Morgana liked to call it – lay a heart of gold.
Arthur Pendragon was strong, courageous, steadfast, and honest. As a person, he was impeccable. As a ruler, however… he considered it the height of indecency to doubt the purity of the motives of those he considered his friends, and couldn't comprehend that monarchs had no friends, only allies; and even allies only as long as their interests aligned.
Having admired him only from afar for so long, Morgana had honestly begun to believed that he was sufficiently changed to be able to rule a kingdom. However, from up close, Morgana could clearly see that Arthur's reluctance to acknowledge the bad in people could jeopardize not only his reign but her own future as well. And they had barely begun their reign. She shuddered to think what other obstacles still awaited them on the path to greatness.
In his assessment of her, however, Arthur wasn't entirely wrong. Her oftentimes downright traumatizing upbringing had left its mark on her. Although in retrospect, she judged that it was for the better. All the unspeakable experiences of her early life had more than adequately prepared her for the task at hand. The only task she truly cared about. Her life's calling was, from the start, to be the greatest ruler Cornwall had ever seen, whatever the cost. And now, she felt ready to answer that calling.
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"Ah, this is beautiful, don't you think?" Morgana asked, admiring the enormous painting Guillaume d'Algiers had sent her as a gift of gratitude for her generous dation to him.
The same freckle-faced servant girl from the library stood behind her, blinking furiously, as though she were suffering from some sort of severe mental affliction, unable to believe that the Queen was asking her puny opinion. She opened her mouth several times to formulate a reply, and failed each miserably each time. Impatient and irritated, Morgana cleared her throat, shooting the freckly girl a dark look.
"I – I think the painter did a m-marvelous job," the girl finally managed, stammering as though she had a speech impediment.
Morgana cocked an eyebrow inquisitorially, and observed her reaction as the servant turned back towards the painting and continued her assessment of it. The girl's entire face lit up as she did so, her eyes sparkling with wonderment as she described what little knowledge she had of the art of painting. "It looks so realistic," the girl said, "It feels as though I'm there myself."
The girl's words may have been flattery, but no one could fake a sparkle in their eyes. Morgana smiled to herself contentedly; this was exactly the effect she had wanted to achieve. "I wasn't there, but the ceremony – the dresses – the decorations – everything looks so beautiful, like something straight out of a dream. Anyone who looks at this picture would want to be you, both of you," the girl went on, seemingly enraptured.
"Alright," Morgana said, clicking her tongue, "So, where are the poems?"
The young girl rushed to collect them and quickly brought them over to her.
"Oh, wow," Morgana said, laughing as the servant handed her the pile of parchment Master Hugo had sent over. "I've always known poets were indecisive, but this…"
The young girl laughed dutifully, but, tired of flattery for the day, Morgana quickly dismissed her. Reading over the twenty-or so version of the same poem describing her beauty and Arthur's obvious fitness to rule the kingdom despite his young age (which he cleverly deducted from the size of his pectoral muscles), Morgana wondered how anyone could like poetry, or how anyone could be self-loathing enough to pursue it as a profession.
All this time, Morgana had believed that poets worked a completely different way: that inspiration could seize them, at any moment of day, be it night or morn, and then bled out all the feelings he could no longer cope with alone on parchment. Apparently, the reality of writing was quite different, not as emotional or mysterious.
Morgana wanted to depict an image of Arthur as a fearless, tough and infinitely cunning monarch, as Uther had been - through art people consumed as well as everything else. She didn't need to have praises sung about her intelligence because she was merely Queen Consort, and it would fare better for Arthur's reign if she remained in the background, no matter what the truth was.
She sighed to herself, remembering Arthur's comments on her methods as Queen Consort. How he loathed the side of her that was cold, calculating and cunning. Arthur had often expressed distate in the harsh measures he often had to take as king in order to maintain an appearance of strength. Morgana, who had grown up seeing her father do much worse on a daily – or at the very least, weekly basis –, didn't feel the slightest bit morally conflicted by many of the things Arthur had difficulty stomaching.
She knew his inability to truly accept the dark side of kingdom was a testament to his pure heart, and that her own unlfinching endorsement thereof a remnant of a broken home. In fact, the part of him she liked best was the part that she considered made him unfit to rule: the powerful sense of justice, the gentleness, the selflessness... and she knew that the part of her he liked the most was similarly too soft to rule. However, they were fated to be monarchs since birth and politics was a dirty business, where, if they wanted to come out on top, they would have to eventually lose all sentimentality.
Everyone wanted the Crown, but only one could have it.
The future was, by all means, foreboding, but they had chosen their paths and had to live with the consequences of their choices.
Suddenly, snapping her out of her thoughts, Arthur entered the Throne Room in with an unfamiliar middle-aged man. Morgana rose from her seat on her throne to greet them.
"Oh, hello, Morgana," Arthur said, bursting into a grin upon spotting her. "May I present to you, my Uncle, Agravaine de Bois. He travelled all the way to Camelot from Beaufort to extend his congratulations to us. Agravaine, my wife Morgana."
"Morgana Le Fey?" Agravaine asked with a grin, dark eyes sparkling. "I believe we have met before. I came by to watch a melee, I think, a few years ago, and saw you there with Arthur," he said, answering Morgana's inquisitorial expression.
"Ah yes, I remember now," the brunette said with a graceful laugh, remembering just the melee Agravaine was talking about. "It's Pendragon now, by the way," she added jokingly.
"Ah, yes," Agravaine replied with a slight laugh. "Congratulations on your marriage. I heard the ceremony was beautiful."
"Why don't you see a live-size painting of it?" Morgana asked, bursting into a cocky grin. The three of them walked over to it.
"Have you commissioned this to be painted? It's certainly stunning." Agravaine said.
"Oh, no," Arthur said with a grin before Morgana could reply. "She didn't 'commission' them, per se. We just donated a generous sum of money to certain artists, who – how did you say it, honey? – repaid us the way they knew best: by sharing their gifts with us."
Brimming with pride, Arthur pulled his wife close to him and kissed the top of her head.
"Well, can I help it if our wedding was so inspirational?" Morgana said, making the two men laugh.
Arthur, who only had fond memories of his uncle, insisted the three of them have lunch and dinner together. During the afternoon – much to Morgana's displeasure – Arthur invited Agravaine to his meeting with the military. It was clear Arthur held his uncle in high esteem, which was understandable, she supposed, given their relation. She was possibly the only one she knew whose heart had been shattered so many times that she practically had no notion of family anymore.
Not to mention, despite his obvious charm and good manners and wonderful sense of humor, to her, there was just something suspicious about him that she couldn't quite put her finger upon. During lunch, Morgana attempted to get him to open up, but all he could get out of the marquis was that he was widowed and had children scattered all over the country. All of his children had respectable professions, except for his youngest son who fancied himself a philosopher. Agravaine said that only wealthy people could afford such follies; other people had to work for a living. He supposed, he said, his son was fortunate that way.
Much to Morgana's aggravation, Arthur invited Agravaine to join him during that afternoon's meeting with the military, during which they would discuss the Saxon threat and come up with a plan of action against the invaders. Arthur had never invited her to join the meetings.
She felt furious with Arthur and jealous of Agravaine. That man had barely been in Arthur's life and he was already granting him access to military secrets? Morgana had been by his side all her life and never gave any cause for mistrust, and yet she, as Queen Consort, denied such trust.
Morgana had often found herself wondering whether Arthur was truly right and she was overly paranoid; she had made it her policy as Queen wife to be mistrustful where her King was guilelessly open, notably when it came to family.
However, after the two men left for the meeting, she would discover something that would cement her in her policies, and change her view of Agravaine forever.
That night, Arthur got so drunk at dinner that Agravaine had to help Morgana carry him to bed. Morgana had desperately wanted to talk to him without his uncle present, to share her concerns about him as well as the discovery she had made in the afternoon. However, once they had placed Arthur on the bed, the Knight was out quicker than a bonfire in the rain.
The following day, Arthur showed his uncle around town, and apparently his council was so invaluable that he was invited to meetings with noblemen who sought to donate to Arthur's causes as long as his and theirs aligned. Arthur, to her knowledge, had so far turned down every single offer. Later on in the afternoon, the two men went into the city, Arthur being eager to show off his kingdom to his beloved uncle.
Morgana was seething inside the entire day. She could barely concentrate on her beloved books, and halted all preparations for Cotillion, society events being the last thing she wanted to occupy herself with. That day, she worked tirelessly to put together a short exposé on the Saxon armies' battling habits (from what little she could find on the subject in the Castle's vast library) as well as some suggestions on how to best deal with the threat. She thought she had the most experience with the Saxons out of anyone and everyone in Camelot, and wondered, highly vexed, what merit Agravaine had to be included in such important discussions.
This continued for several days until on the sixth night of Agravaine's arrival, Morgana refused to allow Arthur to get slobbering drunk. Not wanting to suffer the hostess's wrath, Agravaine aided Morgana in her mission. Morgana had to constantly remind herself of her policy, so easy it was otherwise to fall under his spell.
However, once back in their chambers, the mood was spoiled. Arthur refused to talk to her, only responding to her questions with unintelligible hummings or one-word sentences, and it took quite a bit of prodding to get him to confess what was bothering him:
"Ever since Agravaine's arrived," he finally wound out, "you've been acting extremely weird."
That was the last drop in the proverbial cup, and Morgana exploded, "I'm acting weird? Look at yourself. Inviting a perfect stranger to meetings, neglecting your duties, canceling meetings, drinking yourself to the ground –"
"Woah, woah, woah there, Morgana," Arthur said with a cocky smile that made Morgana's blood boil, "For the past two months, all I've done was work, work, work! I was always either doing my father's or your bidding! I'm King, after all! Don't I deserve a few days off once in a while?"
"We were just giving you council," Morgana said softly. "You didn't need to follow it. We were both just trying to help. Your father and I."
"Help, huh? I know both of you think I'm unfit for the throne!" Arthur yelled. "The day of the diagnosis of his illness, he begged me to wed you! BEGGED ME! He pretended it was because you were the only one I could trust at Court –"
"Which is true," Morgana interjected quickly.
"It is NOT true! I can absolutely trust Agravaine as well! He's my uncle, for God's sake!"
Morgana rolled her eyes in utter irritation and shook her head disbelievingly.
"At least," Arthur said, and for a moment Morgana could see the bottled up feelings surface before they were concealed again beneath a veneer of toughness, "Agravaine thinks I'm capable of ruling the Throne alone."
"I think you are too!" Morgana pretended to be aghast at the accusation.
"You don't even trust me to make my own decisions when it comes to whose council I listen to," Arthur snapped. "How do you expect me to believe you trust me with anything else? Time and again, you've went out of your way to convince me to do things your way during our reign." Morgana was about to point out how successful all of her ideas had been when Arthur quickly said, "I cherish your council but you are Queen Consort, not Queen!"
Morgana suddenly felt so angry she could not speak. Arthur was unleashing months of suppressed anger on her, however, and was relishing its every minute.
"This is why I don't invite you to my meetings! You would just go in there, try to take over, walk over me, question the intelligence of anybody but yourself –"
Morgana seemed to have found her voice in the meantime. "That is not true!" she yelled, interrupting him. "And I DON'T THINK YOU'RE UNFIT FOR THE THRONE!" Morgana was screaming by the end.
"Yes, you bloody think that," Arthur cried. "Don't tell me you accepted this because you loved me after two years of barely talking to me!"
"I – I –" Morgana spluttered.
"You didn't," Arthur said, trying to calm down, "And I know you do now. Or at least so I feel. But you didn't feel quite this way when you married me, did you? You married me for your own interests."
"I did not –"
"Do you think I'm STUPID?!" Arthur was screaming by this point, his face red with fury. "My father asked for you to talk to before he asked for me. And when he finally did, first of all, he begged me to wed you. During our many talks to follow, he would attempt to convince me that he felt remorse over not intervening in Cornwall's internal affairs, even though your father was his trusted friend. He asked me to not only make his kingdom greater, but to right his past wrongs." Morgana thought she might cry. Every word felt like another stab in the chest. "I'm assuming this is how he hooked you, right? He dangled the possiblity of reclaiming your throne in front of his eyes. I suppose you just couldn't resist, even if you had to marry me for it." Arthur's voice was a low, menacing hiss. Morgana struggled to suppress her tears.
"You're right," Morgana said, blinking furiously, "I didn't love you when I accepted your proposal, but don't pretend you weren't just fulfilling your father's last wish when you asked me to marry you. You're just as guilty as I in that aspect, and I won't let you pretend otherwise." Arthur was about to protest, but Morgana raised her voice, "And yes, if there's any chance that I can reclaim the throne I rightfully deserve, I'll take it, just as you or Uther or anyone else would in my place. But I know that even if that happens, if it ever does, it will be in a far off future. That's not only why I accepted. I watched the Saxons ruin one country, and I could not just stand by as they tried to do the thing to the second country that had given me a home –"
Morgana supposed she could have lied, but it would have been of no use at this point. The undiscussed beginning of their relationship, morally debatable on both of their parts, had always bothered her, and had always felt it would be better for the both of them to come clean. This was, however, never the way she had envisaged it happening. This was the worst possible scenario unfolding.
"I suppose," Arthur said, interrupting. "That you don't think that without your help, I could manage it!?"
"I suppose not," Morgana said, eyes narrowed to slits. "Did you know, for example, that your beloved uncle, is the next in the line of your succession if you die?"
Arthur spluttered in disbelief. "Is this what you've been spending hours in the library for? Looking at my family tree? I know that as well, Morgana. You could have just asked me." There was an infuriating note of superciliousness in his voice.
"No, that's not what I was working on," Morgana snapped in response, "I've been in the library poring over anything I could find relating to the Saxons, as well as recalling my own memories. I put together a plan –" Morgana began rummaging in her cupboard for it, "as well as a few pointers on what I personally think you should –"
"Save your breath," Arthur said coolly, interrupting her again, "I'm not going to read it. As long as I live, I rule this country and not you. And you, as Queen Consort, are actually the next in the line of succession in the case of my untimely death, not Agravaine."
"But I would never –"
"I do believe I have more to fear when it comes to you than when it comes to Agravaine," Arthur said, his eyes sparkling with disappointment and mistrust.
Morgana took a deep breath to quell her fury. But as enraged as she was, she was tired of fighting. "If you truly believe what you're saying," she said. "Then you're the greatest fool I've ever had the misfortune to know."
Without another word, she was already out of his chambers.
She waited to fall apart till she returned to her own.
In bed that night, she tossed and turned fitfully, unable to sleep, wondering how her life could have gone from heaven to hell in a matter of minutes.
A/N: I'm begging you, if you're reading this, please leave a review!
