It takes a full day's work to take care of the battle's dead.
It is a relief that the weather has cooled somewhat from the sweltering summer months, for the bodies would have decomposed swiftly and they would have had to work through the night.
Morgana sighs as she pins another ribboned lock of hair—short, auburn, she does not recognize it—to a parchment note with the fallen soldier's name and consolations laboriously copied onto it. She takes the quill out of its inkwell stand and signs her name. She can't remember how many times she's gone through these motions already.
In truth, her share of the work is miniscule compared to that of others: Cornwall had only contributed the less-than-three-hundred troops remaining from the first battle at Peredor to this second battle, and the number of soldiers that she has to go do this for is less than it could have been. Camelot and Escetia had both lost more than nine hundred troops yesterday. The price for victory.
Mithian's archery regiment had been the only ones without a single casualty in this battle. It is a small mercy that Mithian need not go through this process, preoccupied as she is by her brother's grievous injury.
Keredic slipped into a deep stupor last night, his condition going from bad to worse at dawn. Morgana knows she should visit him, if only as a show of concern. But she cannot bring herself to go anywhere near his chambers, and there is much to do besides. While she still has work, she can make excuses to herself about her cowardice.
The cremations begin at sundown, after all of Albion's dead has been identified and cleaned. Somehow, all of the nations had managed to go through the tradition of taking a lock of hair to send back to the grieving family by midafternoon. Then had come the flurry of activity in preparing for the ceremonies and celebration to come. Large deer carcasses, skinned and trussed, glisten as they roast above crackling campfires. Bountiful feasts are set up in rough oak tables set up across the entirety of camp, waiting for the solemnities to give way to festivity.
The drums start beating out a steady rhythm. Friends and comrades from the regiment step forward to stand by each pyre, blazing torches in their right hands. The beats thrum inexorably on; they thrust the torches into the dry tower of branches as one, stepping back only after every pyre is set alight. The flames lick at the darkness settling upon the camp, bright enough to glow out the night.
Standing with the surviving Cornish regiment, Morgana stares into the flickering blue dancing down the pyre, then looks up at the stars appearing one by one to shine against the velvety dark night.
May they find the peace they fought for.
A single horn blasts out a mournful note, then another. One by one, other horns join in the slow melody to accompany the trodding rhythm of the drums. As the fires burn brighter, tens of thousands of voices join as one in the hauntingly familiar coranich, tribute from the living to the dead. Morgana listens, forming the words with her lips without making a sound.
No one speaks of the larger blaze visible on the outskirts of the Plains of Peredor, the careless piles of Saxon bodies burning together as one. It could just as easily have been their corpses heaped together without the sanctity of a funeral, deprived of even that last consolation.
The spirits are loud tonight. It's always freshest the day of the slaughter, and with so many killed by her hand, it would be too much to expect anything less. Though there are thousands by her side, the mournful dirge seems to rally the shadows of her dead. Morgana keeps her eyes on the fiery pyres.
It's hard to tell how much time has passed before the fires calm to a steady burn and the music reaches its end. A last minute of silence, and then the solemnity is broken by the joyful blast of the bugle that marks the beginning of the celebrations. Arthur steps to the dais, lit by torches and witch-light both.
"Four months, we have fought the Saxons that have dared attack our homeland. Four months, we have had to fight for our people, our freedom, and our ways of life. Different as we are, we have fought not as Cantia, Meredor, the eleven kingdoms standing alone, but as one united Albion. Our battles have taken us from the sea-citadels of Cornwall to the shores of the river Trent, and you have all fought with the bravery and selflessness of true heroes in each and every one. And yesterday, you gave more than we could have ever asked for."
Morgana listens to him acknowledge each nation's role in the decisive battle, stepping forward with a curtsy as he thanks the Cornwall regiment to thunderous roars. Arthur looks at her directly and meets her eyes for the briefest of seconds before turning away. Twitching a smile, she sweeps her gaze over the thousands of faces turned toward Arthur in rapt attention.
"You have changed the course of history in this battle for Peredor. The Saxons are defeated and in retreat. They no longer have the men or the resources to threaten the freedom of our people. Their blight will be removed as we reclaim every inch of our land. But tonight, we honor our fallen. Tonight, we honor your courage and your sacrifice. The battle is won. Albion is free. Tonight, we celebrate our victory."
He raises his goblet.
"For Albion."
Thousands of voices echo him as one as thousands of arms raise their own goblets.
"For Albion."
Silky solemnity settles one last time as everyone drinks. And then it drops, revelry unfurling itself among the crowds to lighten the atmosphere. Fiddles break out in bounding tunes as people clear dancing grounds around the bonfires and gather around the feast tables. Soon, there are men and women stamping out jigs to the festive music while others gorge themselves on rich fare and drink to their hearts' content. Someone laughs heartily, head thrown back to the darkened sky.
Morgana tries to follow along to the rhythm of the nearest fiddle, tapping her thigh with a finger in an attempt to focus on something—anything, really—other than the shadows of the dead, but soon gives up and shakes her muslin skirts out. Dressing for this occasion had taken much thought, considering its enormous occasion. She would be seen by every surviving Albion participant of this battle common and noble, from every corner of the eleven kingdoms, and needed to impress—it would be her only chance to make an impression on most of these people, with such impact. She needed to emphasize her role as a leader and not a mere ornament for a man's arm, nor so high and mighty that she would retain all her luxuries in this time of hardship.
No silk or furs, then. No gaudy jewels, either. A well-made muslin dress without a train would give her a sufficiently sleek look without looking out of touch with the war's toll. There was no question of wearing armor and her war regalia as the male command did; a general she may be, but she could not afford the instinctive distaste that dressing as such in less pressing times brings on for the more prejudiced. A diadem against unbound hair to denote her status, and the usual ruby necklace on her otherwise bare throat.
She would have worn one of her favored blues or greens, but her sister had been insistent in driving into her mind that red was the color to wear for a post-battle feast, for victory and for the blood that was shed. Morgana privately thinks her sister just really likes wearing red, but she does see her line of reasoning in this case. It goes better with her necklace, anyway.
Mithian is present, as breathtakingly beautiful in a simple pale yellow linen gown trimmed with minimal silk as she did in the most sumptuous of ball gowns. The princess sends a wavery smile Morgana's way before continuing a whispered conversation with her father. Morgana is surprised to see Vivian present—the princess must have made her way down to Glauchedon from Camelot as soon as she heard of the outcome, for her to be here now. Vivian has entertained no such restraint in her attire, dazzling in a blushing pink satin and embroidered silk gown with the gems to match. Perhaps she had the better of it, Morgana thinks as she hears the appreciative murmurs for Vivian. Vivian notices her watching and gives her a bright, brittle smile and a wave. Morgana nods and waves back.
And this is helping, as petty as it is to appraise her peers' appearances and her own. Picking out acquaintances keeps her from focusing too much attention on the grim-faced Saxon warrior reaching toward her as the sergeant Endise whirls right through him with someone she doesn't know, oblivious. There are two at the corner of her vision, one with—his? her?—entrails spilling out, and another holding herself up by the battered, bloodstained pike…
Hair. Are those emeralds woven through Vivian's hair? No, they're sapphires, to match her admittedly well-shaped eyes. Morgana can do this—she had been doing so well, too. She should go and compliment the princess on the beautiful arrangement, if only to maintain that veneer of friendship that they've maintained on visits past. She should talk to Mithian too, ask about poor Keredic. Except every time she thinks about it, there's a knot that forms in her throat that she can't quite swallow. And that brings her back to the ghostly hands reaching at her, making her flinch back even though she knows that they can't touch her, not really.
Enough is enough. Morgana looks around at those around the high table—most of the monarchs are making sure to feed themselves before they have to go out to socialize, eating quickly in the short time when everyone is transitioning to a festive mindset and no one is quite sure what is supposed to be happening. Morgause is eating in that determined yet collected way that Morgana has always envied, and would not welcome anyone disturbing her. Morgana takes a quick glance at Arthur. He seems to be having a conversation with Lancelot and Merlin, speaking between quick bites. She could not begrudge him that short sliver of privacy before he has to go and be the high king once more. It didn't have to be them, in any case—she just needs to distract herself. Someone, anyone would do.
Morgana catches sight of a familiar knight walking past and all but charges at him in her hurry to detain him. Except gracefully, because even though she might be the tiniest bit desperate, she knows there are always eyes watching. She grabs him by the forearm. His ridiculously perfect hair flutters as he turns in surprise.
"Princess, what—"
Morgana doesn't wait for Gwaine to finish the sentence before she tugs him away from the high table.
"Dance with me."
Gwaine doesn't resist physically as she pulls him along, and they are at the edge of the dancing grounds. The musicians are starting up one of the more playful tunes, and many are already jumping into chain dances or partner dances.
"Are you going to allow me to know what this is about?" Gwaine asks when she maneuvers him into position for a partner dance.
"Are you going to not dance with me if I say no?" She asks in reply, then looks away. "Come, the music's starting."
He obligingly takes her hands and starts the steps, brows furrowing as she tightens her grip. Gwaine looks at her again, this time with concern.
"As honored as I am, Princess, what's going on?"
Morgana looks down, trying to focus on following the steps and not stepping on his nice, polished boots and most of all not seeing the ghastly dying spectres that surrounds her. She doesn't answer his question.
"Did Merlin make your boots this shiny, or did your poor squire slave over it?"
Gwaine opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it once more.
"These are new, thank you for noticing." He pauses, then speaks slowly. "Princess, if you're using me to make Arthur jealous…"
Her head snaps up as if he has slapped her and she glares at him, eyes blazing. As if she would even think of doing such things—and at the victory feast, of all places.
"How dare you."
Gwaine winces as her nails bite into his hands. "I had to say it. You've not answered my question."
"I... " Morgana grits her teeth, struggling to find an explanation that would not make her sound like a madwoman and also would not be an outright lie. 'I see the spirits of everybody I kill and the body count for me is a little high right now, so I just want to use you to pretend I don't see them' is not an acceptable reply. A half-truth, then. She accidentally trods on his foot as her focus wavers.
"I needed to talk to someone. I've been feeling faint, and I just needed something to ground me—I can't stomach food right now, and I didn't want to admit…"
She trails off, deliberately not finishing the sentence. Gwaine has that half-guilty, sheepish look on his face. None of it is untrue, in any case. She has not had the appetite to eat, not with the shadows of the dead hovering over her, and she has been feeling faint from not eating. Righteous indignation makes her feel more alive, less haunted.
"I didn't know it would inconvenience you so," she says, voice brittle. "I apologize."
Gwaine keeps his mouth shut after that, and she goes through the rest of the steps with icy detachment. Still, his proximity and the concentration required for her to avoid missteps keeps her feeling sane and human. The tune peters out, and she sweeps him a formal curtsy.
"Thank you for the dance," she says stiffly. "I do hope you will enjoy the feast."
Gwaine catches her other hand. "Don't be too angry at me, Princess. I had to ask, what with Arthur glaring at the back of my neck the entire time."
Morgana looks at him incredulously, and he shrugs.
"I meant no harm, truly."
He bows and lets her go. She deflates as soon as he is out of her sight—the worst thing is, she knows that he spoke honestly. He only means to protect Arthur. She cannot be angry at him for that.
Now that she is worked up, however, she feels steady enough to go through her more public interactions. Letting a smile spread wide on her face, she whirls to join one of the chain dances put on by the probably more than slightly drunk Cornwall soldiers. There are quite a few Nemeth soldiers in the mix, and she nods at them too—they are war-comrades too. The footsoldiers cheer and clap as she turns in time with the others.
Two more chain dances, and the music jumps to a high-spirited jig that she knows absolutely no steps of. One of the survivors of the bait troops takes her by the hand and includes her in the circle of chain dancers, nonetheless. She laughs and stumbles in time with the others, sweeping her skirt out as she twirls. Tristan looks slightly terrified at her gaiety as he links arms with her, but has no time to say anything before they swap partners again. Isolde returns to his arms and giggles at her. Morgana smiles back at the woman, then loses her balance and trips into her new—and final—partner. Strong arms wrap around her waist. Arthur looks down at her in amusement.
"I don't know the steps to this one," she tells him as he lets go of her waist to take her hands. They're warm and comforting, and in this moment she can feel the joy of victory swallow her personal shadows.
"Neither do I," he replies. She laughs again.
He twirls her in time to the tune of the fiddle, and a smile breaks out on her face as he struggles as much as she does. The jig ends on a breathless note, and he lowers their joined hands to lie slack, but doesn't let go.
"Thank you for the dance," she says, and tries to take her hands back. He holds on tighter.
"Another one, then? I promise I'll be better."
She pulls her hands back more firmly. "You should dance with someone else now."
"I want to dance with you."
She looks at him, then—meets his striking cobalt eyes boring down at her and curtsies sharply.
"Favoritism," she warns, and turns to leave.
He laughs bitterly behind her, and she is glad she cannot see his face. "Morgana, half the camp already knows that I'm—"
"Vivian would do," she cuts him off without turning around. "She's heading this way, anyways. She looks beautiful tonight."
Arthur lets out a half-sigh, half-growl, and she does not need to see to know that he is annoyed.
"Oh look, there's Lancelot. Something of utmost importance just came up that I need to discuss with him."
She pretends not to hear the twist in his voice, and waits to greet the other princess until he has stalked away.
"You look magnificent," she tells Vivian with a smile, and means it. Vivian's sapphires glitter in the firelight.
"I did my best," Vivian purrs, then sweeps her gaze up and down. "It's a pity you could not prepare with me. You could have worn something more suitable, less plain." The princess brushes a hand down her own glossy skirts. "I could have lent you a better gown."
Morgana feels her smile grow a little strained. "I felt it best to refrain from indulging," she settles for saying. "But I appreciate your kindness."
"Oh, the war has been harsh," Vivian waves a hand airily. "But that doesn't mean we need to shine any less brilliantly. In fact, it's our downright duty as ornaments of court to show the peasants what they're fighting for, really."
"Mm. You have been staying at Camelot?" Morgana thinks it best to change the topic. Vivian has a point—dazzling the common folk is part and parcel of royal appearances. Morgana only thinks it is better to be less ostentatious about it. And she was no ornament.
"Yes, Camelot. There is much to do there," Vivian tells her. "Us womenfolk do much so that the warriors do not even notice that work has been required. Glauchedon may have taken care of the military logistics, but the fields must still be plowed. Camelot must remain running."
Morgana had not realized that Vivian had been working, sequestered in Camelot. There is a household there, she knows, Arthur's domestic council, but she had assumed one of those non-military councilors would have dealt with their upkeep.
"I hope that has not been too great a burden," she says in reply. "I know you still have duties to Cantia."
"And that is why I am here," Vivian says. "One thing to slave away over shirts and supplies for Glauchedon, but Cantia's soldiers should see me. I am their princess, after all."
"I'm sure they greatly appreciate it."
Morgana is actually a little curious now—how has Vivian managed a household that not only has little allegiance to her, but also is in a state of flux from the war? But before she can ask, Vivian pats her hand, eyes fixed on somewhere to her left. Morgana turns, and there is the golden glint of Arthur's hair against the red of his Pendragon cape.
"I must take your leave," Vivian says, absent-mindedly. "There is someone I must talk to."
Morgana replies automatically. "Of course." They both dip shallow curtsys to each other before Vivian is drawn like moths to a flame to the object of her infatuation. Morgana fixes a wan smile on her face as the shadows grow louder in her absence.
It is not long after that that Merlin all but accosts her.
"You shouldn't listen to her," the warlock tells her, panting from his rush to get to her. "There's that spell, and she wasn't nice to begin with."
The shadows retreat in a hurry. Morgana blinks. "I shouldn't listen to Vivian."
"Yes! She's trying to discourage you because she thinks you're competition, but she's lying. Trust me, Morgana."
"Because I'm competition?" Morgana repeats, thoroughly confused. "Are you quite all right, Merlin?"
"I'm fine. The important thing is that you know she's not engaged to Arthur, she is not marrying him anytime soon—or ever, honestly—"
"Merlin. Merlin. Merlin. Calm down. We were talking about the Camelot household," she cuts him off. "Arthur didn't even come up."
"I… seriously?"
Morgana rolls her eyes. "Seriously. We have a lot more to think about than just men, you know."
Merlin flushes.
"I know. I didn't mean…"
The warlock trails off, waving a hand to signify the general everything that he didn't mean. Morgana shrugs.
"Of course. Now, are you here to ask for a dance? I must warn you I'm terrible."
Merlin cracks a grin. "I know. I've seen. I'll keep my feet untrodden on, thanks. Just here to talk."
"Mm. So, dragons."
"It wasn't really planned. I kind of owed Arthur, though."
"So you forced them?" Morgana raises an eyebrow. "I would have thought you'd want to refrain."
"I needed to."
"They must not care for human conflicts."
Merlin fidgets. "You've heard the land beyond the sea has no dragons."
Morgana does not speak, but waits for his explanation.
"Rumors are that there used to be. Some of the intelligence reports say that the Saxons are hunting out our dragons as well."
"Why…"
"The leader of the Saxons thinks they're bad luck. To him, personally. Some soothsayer told him that a dragon of fire and gold would be his demise and he took it a bit hard."
They had gathered information about the structure of the invasion from the captives and the remains of the torched Saxon camps. Since there had been no official declaration of war or pre-existing nation for these Saxon invaders, they had not known much about the leaders until yesterday. Their previous captives had been either deliberately obfusciating or genuinely too low on the hierarchy to know the full chain of command. Not even Morgana's siphoning information with magic had given them details on the man in charge—she worked in images and memories, and sounds were difficult to retain. They had known that a man named Vortigern figured heavily in the chain of command, as did Edrik and Widukind, but no idea as to how centralized the attacks were. Morgana had even gone so far as to guess that there were multiple head leaders going their own ways, considering that there were forces attacking elsewhere even at the time of the second battle of Peredor.
Vortigern, the new captives had revealed, was the chieftain-turned-general in command of the entire invasion, while the other two were merely his lieutenants. This gives Albion a more level playing field—they had no doubt that the Saxons knew of Arthur's High Kingship, established as he was.
"Fitting in a way," she muses. "Arthur's sigil is the dragon, after all."
"Yes," Merlin replies. "But the point is, he's kind of murdering all the dragons he can find. Not nice. Especially not nice when Kilgarrah keeps bellowing in my mind about vengeance and blood."
Morgana remembers the ancient dragon. "Ah."
"So they weren't that reluctant to help. Dragons have cousins too, you know."
"For which I'm very grateful," Morgana tells him. "Though it was quite a surprise to run into a hydra in the middle of battle."
Merlin lets out a laugh. "Her name is Myrrghcedrah." It sounds like a cross between a garbled choke and a growl. "She likes to burn things."
"I saw. Did it—she—stay?"
"She went home straight after. I figured it was safest."
Morgana bites her lips to stop herself from laughing at the absurdity of it all. Merlin notices and smiles sheepishly.
"It's different for me," he says, "They gossip and talk to me and they're not my friends, really, but they're like people."
If only the magical beings that spoke to her were as mundane.
"Does she have a gentleman friend, then?" she asks instead.
"I shouldn't tell you, but there's someone she's had her eyes on for a while. Princess Vivian might actually have heard of him."
There's a hydra near Cantia. Good to know. Maybe, if Merlin and the hydra in question weren't too opposed, they could set another trap incorporating the various magical inhabitants of Albion. Merlin certainly seems to be on speaking terms with them. Morgana is about to say as much when a jolly voice calls out to them.
"Oy, Merlin! Get over here!"
Merlin looks back to where some of Arthur's knights are passing around what seems to be a barrel of wine. He grimaces.
"Hide me."
Morgana raises an eyebrow, but makes no move to do so.
"They're waiting for you. You should join them."
Merlin shoots a betrayed look at her as he gets up.
"If I don't survive tonight, I'm blaming you."
Morgana waves at him cheerily, then gets up herself to make her way over to Mithian. It's about time she acknowledged Nemeth. Anything would be better than sitting alone right now, with so many dead by her hand.
It turns out Mithian is just as eager to speak to her, if only to tell her about how poor Keredic is doing. The wound is deep and grievous, and though Keredic himself may have been able to heal such an injury, the healers they have available have not been able to prove as competent.
"It's not your fault," Mithian hastens to say. She looks down at her hands. "I know you did your best to protect him."
Morgana is relieved that Mithian at least understands the pains she took to keep Keredic safe. She smiles, grateful both at the comforting words and the fact that the other princess has not held her harsh words after the battle against her.
"Thank you," she tells her. "I am sorry I could not do more."
Mithian shakes her head. "I am grateful for the care you've shown my brother."
"I…" There is nothing more she can think to say. Mithian lays a warm hand on her shoulder and leads her to sit down next to her.
"I hope you are enjoying the feast," Mithian says carefully. "It is good to celebrate such a great victory for Albion."
Morgana nods. "There has been a lot of dancing. I'm afraid I trampled on quite a few Nemeth boots."
"I'm sure they were honored," Mithian grins. "They don't usually get such distinguished personages stepping on their feet."
"I hope not. Have you been dancing as well?"
"I have. The prince of Caerleon graced me with a dance, as has the High King. My father as well."
Morgana smiles wryly. "I'm afraid the Prince Bedwyr has not seen fit to honor me with a dance. Is he a good dancer?"
Mithian giggles. "I can tell you you would not be missing much, my lady. I enjoy dancing as much as the next person, but there are times…" She trails off deliberately.
Morgana nods understandingly. "Do you often enjoy balls in Nemeth?"
"Oh, yes. My mother would put me in charge of putting together feasts and such for the social season. It was an exercise of sorts in organization."
"I'm sure it has served you well. It seems like a creative way to hone skills for the household."
"I did enjoy it," Mithian says, "but it also had the unintended side effect of instilling a rather devout love of dance."
"That's not a bad thing," Morgana laughs. "What I wouldn't give to have as much affection for dance. It would make all this" she waves at the dance floor in front of them "easier. Neither my father nor my sister had much patience for the art, and it was too late by the time I started."
"You can always learn," Mithian tells her. "Music takes you away to a better place, and don't we all need that?"
"I never thought about it that way," Morgana says, and closes her eyes to better listen to the music. She can hear Mithian lean back the same way with a small contented sigh. Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. A woman sings a mournful tune, accompanied by a fiddle. There is something more, Morgana thinks, than just a pretty voice—what it is, she can't say. She opens her eyes. Maybe Mithian would know.
"It's about a boy who will not take his former back," Mithian says quietly, eyes still closed. "A country song. You can hear the longing."
The princess sings along. Then she'll be a true love of mine.
Morgana listens, watching the fires crackle and dance. When the song ends, Mithian smiles at her. "Perhaps I can introduce you to other music, after."
"I would enjoy that." Morgana is surprised to find that she really means it. Mithian lights up at her words.
"I could round up some musicians at court, and—"
"Get away from my daughter."
Morgana's breath hitches at the harsh, gravelly voice cutting Mithian off. Rodor charges up to them both as they rise from their seats. Morgana colors, biting her lip to keep her temper. She had hoped, after Mithian's kindness, that things would be all right with Nemeth. It seems that Rodor does not share his daughter's sentiments regarding the blame for Keredic's wound.
"Father—" Mithian begins, but shuts her mouth in a grimace as Rodor shouts.
"How dare you speak to my daughter—after what you did to my poor son, while he's on the brink of death—"
So Rodor does blame her. Morgana grits her teeth, but remains civil. She cannot afford to antagonize Rodor. "King Rodor, I apologize if I have given any cause for offense, but I only wished to speak with Princess Mithi—"
"Don't you dare speak my daughter's name, you bastard of a witch!"
Before anyone can stop him, Rodor backhands her. Heat blooms across her right cheek. Mithian gasps in horror.
"Father!"
Morgana snaps her head back up, eyes blazing. By the gods, she cannot let this insult stand. Keeping the peace with Nemeth be damned. Even her own father would not fault her for demanding her due with a duel. Morgana takes a breath to issue the challenge.
Before she speaks, however, she can see Arthur storming toward them from the corners of her sight. More than anything else, the golden glint of his hair flickering against the firelight brings her back to her senses.
Arthur cannot be involved in this. Victory that this may have been, the high kingship will not withstand such a large fracture in his support. And Cornwall—her Cornwall. She would do her already war-torn country no good by turning yet another nation against it. Remember your duty.
Arthur is getting closer. Morgana takes another shuddering breath. Calm. That is what she needs.
"I understand that you are bereaved, King Rodor, and I will respect your grief. It is a difficult time for all of us."
She gives a crisp curtsy, exactly the depth proper for a princess to a king. Rodor begins to say something, but Mithian grabs her father and somehow restrains him. He spits on the ground in disgust as Morgana turns on her heel.
She walks away quickly before Rodor can worsen things for both of them. But not quickly enough, it seems, because Arthur is already close enough to change course and follow her.
Arthur's face is stormy as he quickly catches up to her. Morgana sighs internally before stopping abruptly and turning on her heels to face him. He nearly runs into her, and she steps back before she sweeps him a curtsy.
"Your highness."
His jaw tightens.
"Morgana."
"All of Albion is rejoicing tonight," she says by way of conversation. Courtly chatter she has been trained in, and she can follow the routine as well as anyone can. "Cornwall is grateful to you for leading us to victory."
Arthur lets out a huff of air. "Morgana." She can hear the exasperation in his voice, the unsaid this is not the first time I'm seeing you tonight, don't act like it is and you are not evading me with pretty talk this time. Morgana is impressed by how much meaning he can pack into the three syllables of her name. That does not mean that she needs to acknowledge any of it.
"I believe I saw Merlin getting into a drinking match with one of your knights—Leon, is it? Perhaps you should rescue him before he blows up camp."
"Let him," he clips out. "Tell me what happened with Rodor."
She blinks at him, tilts her head. "Nothing to concern you, your highness. We had a minor disagreement. Of no importance, really."
He raises his finger to lightly trace her cheek.
"You're bruised," he tells her. "You can't just pretend everything's okay."
Morgana swears quietly and touches her own cheek before taking out a mirror from a hidden pouch, to Arthur's instant bemusement. Examining the tiny cut and the darkening bruise, she whispers a few words. The skin immediately looks unbroken and normal.
"And now I'm not," she says, flashing him an artificially bright smile. That's a lie—she doesn't want to risk healing it so she's gone for a very weak mirage, but it would hold for the night and no one would notice.
Except Arthur, apparently, because he raises an eyebrow and tells her so.
"You didn't heal that."
Morgana raises her own eyebrow. "It's not there anymore."
"You don't heal. You've never liked healing."
"It's not there anymore."
Arthur looks at her, unimpressed. "That doesn't make the fact that he slapped you disappear."
Morgana drops her gaze at that. "He was upset about Keredic. I cannot blame him for that."
There would be war if I did. Cornwall cannot afford a war, she adds silently.
Arthur's lip twists, but he says nothing. Morgana takes advantage of that silence to curtsy in a self-dismissal from the High King's presence.
"You should be seen talking to Rodor as well," she tells him as she walks past. "Pleasantries, but it'll stop this from making the high king look biased."
Arthur's gaze sharpens. He opens his mouth to respond, but Morgana makes sure to walk away fast enough to plausibly deny hearing him. She doesn't turn around to acknowledge what he says to her retreating back.
Morgana only dares look back when she is almost to the high table already. She can barely see Arthur talking to Rodor—she is too far away to see his expression, but their general postures look neutral at worst. Morgana sighs—at the very least, Arthur is taking her advice—and takes a second look at the bountiful feast spread before her. Her stomach churns just at the thought of swallowing. Turning away, she sits down near a bonfire, careful to keep her skirts away from the flames.
"For you, I can't be unbiased," Arthur had said—she had heard him clearly, even if she hadn't shown it. What did that even mean, anyways? He wants to take sides? Morgana is all for having one's own opinions, but it is best to not reveal them as a public figure.
Arthur is being ridiculous, that is clear. As High King, he cannot afford to be anything other than unbiased. After all the effort she put into avoiding a situation where he would be forced to choose, she would hope he appreciated it.
I can't be unbiased.
Well, there is little she can do about this now, is there? Arthur should have known when he accepted the High Kingship that a figurehead makes no private actions, only public gestures. Everyone is watching, counting the number of minutes he spent speaking with this general and that lady. Arthur cannot afford any missteps. Morgana has no intentions of providing the cause for any. If that means she must distance herself from him in every public event over the entire duration of this curst war, then so be it.
It is no big sacrifice.
Morgana takes a bracing breath, and throws herself again into the festivities. She smiles harder and laughs brighter, and dances away the ghosts and whispers until the torches burn away to ashes.
Arthur does not seek her out again.
And as she walks—only slightly stumbles—back to the shadows of her chambers, tipsy with the ale she really should have stopped drinking hours ago, she can fool herself into ignoring that knot in her stomach.
A/N: Thank you to readers and reviewers, old and new. For those of you who've stayed with me for the years this story's been dragging on, thank you and I'm sorry for the long breaks. Special thanks to Kreuse, Starseeker24, HcintaHr, BassFriday, AmeliaStriker, royuki, AryaTindomiel, Your Favorite Oxymoron, OrchidJen, Lady Pendragon, LoveOvergron, reeroy, and everyone else who keeps me coming back with encouragement!