Chapter 12: Blood and Betrayal
It had been Merlin's intention to speak privately to the lady Morgana for some time. Before they left Stawell for the north, of course, but his natural disinclination to know the future and his new focus on the tangible piece of magic - in his hand as he climbed the stairs of the castle to the guest wing – had so far provided a good excuse for him to delay.
But if Freya had voiced the suggestion…
"It's done," he called to Arthur, rounding the corner just as the king opened the door of his temporary chamber.
Arthur's face held a controlled impatience for a single instant longer, before he visibly relaxed on recognizing him, and jerked his head in invitation for Merlin to enter behind him.
"Well," Merlin added, closing the door behind him and holding out the bronze scabbard for Arthur's inspection, "almost. It still needs sealing, and even though it works now, for anyone who has it in his possession, there's still a bit of magic to be done to the mount –" he dug the silver gilt piece from his pocket – "to bond it to you."
Arthur wore the skeptical expression which usually served to cover surprise or deeper emotion, as he examined the scabbard. "It's –" He cleared his throat. "Well, it isn't completely unsightly, at least."
"And it'll save your life," Merlin said, hearing the true compliment and sentiment behind his king's verbal reticence. "Try the sword." He added, as Arthur reached to his hip to draw the dragonsword, "I'll admit I'm no expert with weaponry –" cover a grin at Arthur's ironically-raised eyebrow – "but I think it ought to –"
The sword slid into the scabbard with a satisfyingly perfect ring of metal; the fit looked snug and comfortable, to Merlin.
"And there you go," he finished.
"Won't do me much good without that piece," Arthur remarked. He traced one of the runes incorporated into the design on the front face of the bronze piece with his thumb, nodding at the mount in Merlin's hand – a circular cuff meant to fit around the bell-shaped mouth of the scabbard, with rings attached to the sides where the sword belt would loop through. "I can't ride to Badon holding this thing in my hand."
He reached peremptorily, and Merlin passed the mount to him; Arthur took a moment to study it as well.
"Who are these two men?" Arthur asked, pointing to two heads-in-profile, at either end of the curved piece.
Merlin gave a huff of amusement. That, he hadn't done; the mount had already been decorated, at least on the outside. "It's you and me, sire, if you like," he said, with the exaggerated tone of an adult humoring a child.
Arthur's mouth twitched. "But we're looking in opposite directions," he said. "Does that mean we never see eye to eye?"
"It means we're like two sides of the same coin," Merlin said, keeping a straight face with an effort.
"There's no such thing as a two-headed coin, unless it's been stamped incorrectly," Arthur returned. "There's heads, and there's tails, so if we're two sides of the same coin, obviously I'm the head which makes you the tail."
He shrugged innocently. "I'd rather be a coin's tail than a horse's –"
"Merlin," Arthur warned, with a glint of humor and danger and maybe relief in his blue eyes. "Shut up."
"Well. This won't take a minute," Merlin said, plucking the mount from his king's hand. "You can sit down if you want. Can I borrow your knife?"
Arthur froze momentarily, halfway to sitting in the chair beside the small table in the fore-chamber. "Excuse me?"
Merlin perched on the tabletop in a cross-legged position, feeling the protest of joints and muscles at returning to the position he'd forced his body to hold for hours at a time, the past two days. "Come on." He snapped his fingers impatiently. "We haven't got all day."
And, he needed to find Morgana. He didn't figure a casual mention over a company dinner this evening would suffice, somehow.
Arthur settled into the chair, leaning to the side to free his belt knife and gave it a flip to hand to Merlin hilt-first. Then hissed and made to grab it back as Merlin laid the edge to the heel of his hand. "What are you –"
"Don't worry about it," Merlin said, wincing as the blade opened the layers of skin to free the blood vessels. "I'll get one of the other healers to fix it later – maybe Gilli, I don't think you've ever met him, he's a friend of mine from –"
"Merlin," Arthur interrupted, with a look of mild distaste. "I didn't know it was going to be blood magic."
"Oh." Merlin blinked at him, turning his hand palm-up so the welling blood wouldn't spill. "I'm sorry, I should've said. There isn't any better way to personalize the magic in the scabbard to you – and it's stronger, that way. Look." He turned the cuff over awkwardly, one-handed. "Here's your name, in the old language."
"I think you've misspelled it," Arthur remarked sardonically, "there are more letters in my name than that."
"Which only proves that I'm the better-educated man, of the two of us," Merlin returned. "The old language combines certain sounds into one symbol. So your first name is condensed to these three characters. Ar-th-ur. See? And then P-en-dr-a-g-o-n, another seven."
"And what's this symbol, then?" Arthur asked, touching a complexity of fine lines that swirled around each other yet never seemed to cross.
"It's a – never mind," Merlin said. A bit embarrassed, to tell the truth; he hadn't expected Arthur to ask for an explanation. Usually he simply trusted whatever part of the fantastic whole Merlin chose to tell him without much questioning – and that addition had been more whimsy than necessity.
"What is it?" Arthur said. "Merlin?"
"It's your right thumbprint," Merlin admitted, feeling his face heat, and avoiding his king's eyes – astonished blue, he'd seen the expression dozens of times. "Please don't ask." To distract them both, he carefully smeared his blood along the inside of the mount, along the grooves of Arthur's name, signing the magic and readying the enchantment to serve a new master.
Freely given, and measured in drops.
He grabbed a polishing cloth from his pocket and wrapped his hand temporarily. "Your turn."
Arthur held out his hand, wordlessly and immediately, and Merlin quickly wiped the knife-blade on the cloth-bandage on his hand to provide some semblance of cleanliness. Arthur scoffed at that a bit, shaking his head, as he made a similar cut on his own palm.
"Okay, just – tip your hand slowly," Merlin said, positioning the cuff. And as the king did so, and the bright red drops rolled and fell, he spoke. "Cocer, ahielde heolfor cynelic Arthur Pendragon, feorhgener."
As he finished, the last drop of blood landed – and sizzled, slightly, as the metal warmed with a brief glow. Then, there was only a reddish tint to the silver gilt, nothing to rub or wash off.
"There," Merlin said, pleased with the result. "Now we'll need the armoror to fit it on, and then – see, it's working already."
Arthur turned his hand as if it belonged to someone else, to look at the cut, still open but no longer bleeding. He quirked one eyebrow at Merlin silently.
"Well, the magic's still new, obviously, so it's very strong," Merlin said defensively. "Give it a decade or two, and you'll probably still bleed, just not… to death." He stopped uncertainly, as Arthur's expression shifted to one that did actually hide what he was thinking from Merlin, almost always unconsciously done.
"Give it a decade," Arthur repeated.
And Merlin remembered. The Camlann prophecy. Well, even so.
"Or two," he added stubbornly. "Probably longer. It depends, a bit, on how often you're injured?" He reached to touch the cut on Arthur's palm, and spoke briefly to actually close the cut. "Thurhhaele."
Arthur shook his head. "Merlin, do you even realize that you're –"
"The strangest boy you ever met?" Merlin suggested with a grin.
"Without a doubt." Arthur gave him a reserved sideways smile, then pushed to his feet and crossed to the door. "Are you coming to the armoror's?"
"No, I was going to talk to Morgana," he answered, following.
Arthur gave an irritated growl as they emerged from the guest chambers of Stawell's castle to the corridor. Narrower than their Camelot counterparts, and as a garrison there was somewhat less need for ornament.
"See if you can talk some sense into her," he advised Merlin over his shoulder, striding toward one of the larger stairways accessing the main level of the keep. He held up his hands – scabbard in one and mount in the other, and raised his voice in mimicry of his half-sister. "Heaven forbid I should actually hurt one of the Saxons."
"Is it you she's worried about fighting, or she just doesn't want anybody fighting at all?" Merlin asked.
Arthur missed the implication of his question. "I don't know, but every time I turn around, it's treaty this and truce talks that, and – oh, there's Guinevere. She should know where Morgana is."
The queen sat sideways in a window-nook, gazing out the arrow-slit window rather absently, Merlin thought, and held back as Arthur bent to kiss his wife – the salute landing on a round cheek instead of her lips as she turned, startled.
"Oh, Arthur!" she said, touching his shoulder to participate in the quick embrace – then looked over his shoulder to smile at Merlin.
"Have you seen Morgana?" Arthur asked without preamble.
"She – came inside a little while ago," Gwen replied, with the set of jaw that said she was tempering the truth slightly to avoid offending her audience, or speaking ill of her subject. She pointed down the stair – she had an angled view. "She didn't see me; she seemed quite upset."
"I'll bet she was," Arthur muttered.
"She went down that hall there," Gwen added. "I saw you two argue – you should talk to her, Arthur, you're leaving tomorrow and might…" She didn't finish, but Merlin heard what she hadn't said. There might not be another chance.
Arthur grumbled a bit, then acquiesced, dropping another quick kiss on her forehead. "All right," he said, jogging down the stairs to stride just ahead of Merlin, "let's get this over with."
"I've never had a sister," Merlin said contemplatively, lengthening his own stride to keep up with his king comfortably, "but I imagine that's a rather counterproductive attitude."
Arthur shot him a glare for habit's sake, and at the juncture of that corridor with another, growled out, "So where has she gotten to?"
"Hold on," Merlin said, ducking his head a bit to look, with his inner eye. He couldn't see through things, like walls or doors, but he could see around… two corners… up a flight of stairs… out onto the flat rooftop of one of the towers. Morgana stood facing north. He closed his eyes to adjust his vision's return to the physical use of it rather than the magical, and blinked at Arthur. "This way."
The corners, the stairs, the rooftop – and when they stepped out, Morgana was no longer simply standing still and gazing at the mountains, but bent over the crenellation at the edge of the tower, hands extended in an odd attitude.
"Morgana!" Arthur called, to get her attention.
She spun in her odd crouch, surprise – then fear – paling her features further. And when she moved, she revealed the object of her focus on the wall – a great black crow.
A tiny paper held in frozen fingertips. And she'd been waiting for messenger and message… from the north?
Morgana flung out her hand, barking a command – the bird leaped and flapped, and Merlin spoke a spell of his own.
"Cume mec, hraefn wan." It was stronger than Morgana's, and so the crow wheeled, circled back to him with a flutter of feathers, and landed on his outstretched hand, mostly protected from the claws by the makeshift bandage.
"What is going on?" Arthur demanded, looking from the recalled crow to his half-sister.
She drew herself up imperiously – which served to emphasize her expectant condition, another niece or nephew for Arthur, which was maybe what she intended. "Nothing," she snapped. "It's none of your business."
"Morgana," Arthur began, darkly displeased, but Merlin turned his attention to the bird.
Wordless magic, and he'd never used it on an animal this way before – the opposite of giving a winged messenger the image of the place and recipient of a message of his, as he'd done in Lionys to communicate with Arthur - the bird saw in a very strange way. It gave Merlin a mild headache to try to discern the images, but the sender of the message was quite clear.
Long blonde waves, delicate features that nearly mirrored Morgana's, legacy of the mother they shared. A gross webbing of scars surrounded the film-obscured right eye.
"Oh, hells," he said feelingly. "Your sister?"
"Morgause?" Arthur said blankly, and looked again to Morgana, whose expression now included defiance. "I thought she was with the priestesses on the isle."
"She is," Morgana stated shortly.
"But that's south of here." Arthur pointed the direction opposite the side of the tower where Morgana stood.
Merlin said, "She's with the Saxons. Isn't she? She's the one who cursed my clan." He felt quite calm, but also quite hot, inside. Fury and fire. "Didn't she?"
"It wasn't her fault!" Morgana blazed - realized she might have said too much – decided she didn't care.
"I'll decide that," Arthur said, every inch a king. "Give me that note."
"No," Morgana said, closing it in her fist.
"I have to see it," Arthur said, grimly resolute. "On the eve of battle, my men's lives may depend -"
Morgana made a swift gesture, her eyes gleamed, and the tiny paper disappeared in a spark of flame and a puff of smoke. Arthur's jaw tightened, and he dropped his hand. She spoke swiftly, looking only at her brother. "Last year she left the isle – she wasn't a prisoner, after all, they were just caring for her – she was coming to visit me, I asked her –"
"She was officially banished from Camelot," Arthur reminded her with a hint of incredulity. "And you asked her here to my outpost?"
Morgana bristled at his use of the possessive term, but didn't challenge it. "She was coming up the coast. Traveling on Cenred's land. I was going to meet her, but –" she hesitated.
"But what, Morgana," Arthur said. A warning, and a demand.
"She met someone," Morgana said, deliberately evasive. "He – seduced her, he must have, took advantage of her since she's –" Her glance at Merlin was at once guilty and resentful – though maybe she only resented feeling guilty.
He understood. Morgause had recovered to a state quite close to Uther Pendragon's, after that battle. Able to care for her own basic needs, carry on a conversation, remember things, but in a very childlike way. With very little calculation or motivation. Which, for a magic-user and a strong one, wasn't a safe situation. The priestesses were meant to be making sure she didn't become a danger to anyone, with her magic.
"Who?" Arthur said. "Come on, Morgana, I know how you feel about her, but surely you don't have any reason to protect whoever she's with. Do you."
"Cenred," she muttered.
Cenred. General Vortigern's son, a weasel of a man Merlin hadn't personally laid eyes on since the day of his youthful almost-sacrifice.
"And Cenred is allied with the Saxons," Arthur said, with a dreadful sort of calm.
It was nothing to what Merlin was feeling. "Fourteen people, Morgana," he said. The crow on his wrist fluttered agitated wings briefly before settling again. "Fourteen of my clan, dead because she cursed them to stop them helping Arthur when the Saxons arrived. And four of them were children." Deliberately he glanced at her belly – her hand dropped to cover the bulge of her unborn child defensively. "She told them of the dragons also, didn't she? Morgana? She's why Kilgarrah's dead?"
Arthur transferred the scabbard and mount to his other hand to put one on Merlin's shoulder, and he quieted. Slightly.
"Your sister is allied with our enemies," he concluded stonily. "That makes her our enemy, also." Again.
"No," Morgana protested. "It's not her fault, she doesn't know what she's doing-"
Merlin snorted – fourteen dead druids seemed very deliberate to him.
"Oh," Arthur said suddenly, his fingers gripping Merlin's shoulder. "Morgana. Tell me this isn't the reason you've been pushing for peace talks and a treaty. To protect your sister in the ranks of the invaders, you'd have us settle and compromise?"
"I've been trying to talk her into leaving them," Morgana said. "I thought maybe, if she was given the chance –"
Arthur dropped his hand, shaking his head slowly. "Why didn't you tell me when you knew she left the isle, when you knew she joined Cenred, when you knew they'd gone over to the Saxons?" he said. "How can I believe you now? How do I know you're not sending them information on our troops and movements?"
"Arthur! I would never!" Her green eyes flashed wide with shocked affront.
"How do I know, Morgana! How do I trust that you're not plotting with them against us – maybe what you saw was my death and our defeat and since you can't change that, you've decided to negotiate for your own benefit when the Saxons invade?" His voice had risen with each question, and even Merlin was taken aback. "How do I know I haven't been betrayed by a traitor from my own household?"
Morgana raised her hand and slapped Arthur's face. Not hard. But he was the king.
Arthur's jaw clenched, and his eyes were icy-hard when he faced her again. "I haven't the time or inclination to start an inquiry into the affair," he said. "But if I were you, I would go directly to my chamber, right now, and stay there until well after the army is away from Stawell."
Morgana's fists were white-knuckle tight, but she said nothing. Arthur faced Merlin.
"Send that thing back to the witch and make sure she knows we've discovered the communication."
Merlin nodded. That meant Morgause – or those advising her – would not try to contact Morgana again, and anything Morgana managed to convey would be suspected by them.
"I," Arthur said grimly, "have to get to the armory." He turned for the stair that descended back into the tower, and Merlin unconsciously shifted to cover his departure.
Morgana noticed. "You can't think I mean him any harm?" she said, irritated. "My own brother, Merlin?"
Merlin refrained from pointing out that she'd just struck him. "You know I can't take the chance," he said. "If you were Gwen, I'd do the same."
He watched her for a moment longer, saw frustration, mostly. Her impetuosity and attachment to her older sister had gotten them all into trouble before – and while it might be true that she never intended this to happen, while he might be able to believe her innocent of the darker charges Arthur had leveled as possible, the fact of her behavior and choices remained to testify against her trustworthiness. But, knowing they wouldn't see her again before they rode out in the morning – and maybe not ever again, therefore, he spoke gravely before turning to leave.
"Goodbye, Morgana."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Dinner was a disaster, Gwen reflected glumly, toying with her tableware and sitting very straight and acting very calm.
Morgana hadn't made an appearance at all, even though she was hostess. Lancelot murmured apologies and vague excuses for his wife; he didn't even know why she wasn't there, Gwen suspected. And Lancelot on edge was even more rigidly proper than his ever-courteous attention to appropriate protocol and respect due his superiors.
Arthur was in a foul mood. Something more than just the tension of marching to battle at dawn – having to lead their men to battle at dawn – the burden of responsibility and command that always weighed so heavily on him when lives were at stake. Because he was a good king, he wanted to protect his people – all his people, even his fighters. But because he was a good king, he had to allow, even order, those fighters to a possible death, for the protection of all.
But. Tonight he even snarled at Merlin, and bridled at the cautionary hand Gwen laid on his forearm.
And Merlin. Sometimes more sensitive to Arthur's moods than even she was, intuitive and sympathetic, was like flint to Arthur's steel, that night. She didn't think they'd quarreled, only that they were separately upset and stressed – maybe even about the same thing.
The prophecy? Perhaps Morgana – Gwen opened her mouth to ask. Then shut it again. She still didn't want to know.
She did wish there were more of Arthur's senior knights present. Freya sat at Merlin's other side but with no other conversation, it was awkward to lean around the sorcerer to speak with his wife – and would probably embarrass the quiet younger woman. Gwaine would liven things up, and Percival's quiet confidence smooth the sharper emotions of the situation. Her own father, Lord Lionel, might have conducted a successful conversation – she'd witnessed it at their palace in Lionys many times – but he had been tired from the trip and was enjoying his dinner from a tray in his own room.
Gwen wasn't half done with the food on her plate when Arthur abruptly muttered something about inspections and pushed up from his place at the honorary head of the table. As visiting royalty he outranked Sir Lancelot the administrator of the estate and commander of the outpost of Stawell.
Merlin frowned faintly at his wine goblet – nearly untouched – twisting it between his fingers. And seemed not to notice Arthur's departure.
Gwen leaned forward slightly to catch Freya's attention; she was watching her husband quietly, hands in her lap. Then Merlin smiled and gave them all a small self-conscious smile – even Lancelot who was still on his feet after Arthur's exit.
"Please excuse me," Merlin said only, giving no reason. But he left through the same door that Arthur had just taken, and his steps were hurried.
Gwen repressed the urge to sigh, also, and stood, quickly followed by Freya. "Lancelot, I know tomorrow will be early, and busy, for you as well," she said. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"My pleasure, my lady," he said, giving her a mannerly half-bow, though both acknowledgements were done absent-mindedly. He seemed lost in thought, his attention mostly on the empty doorway where the king and his sorcerer had disappeared.
As Gwen turned, Freya fell into step with her; though neither said anything til they'd reached the outer hall, the silence between them wasn't strained. Freya was one of those rare women who was a good listener, and seemed to understand and accept the moods, thoughts, and feelings of those around her without judgment. They'd already spoken of the accommodations, the expectations for daily occupation. They didn't have to talk about their shared concern for Arthur and Merlin, and what tomorrow meant.
Perhaps trying to explain the tension at dinner, and its abrupt end, Freya said, "I think they found out who the magic-user is, who allied with the Saxons, and attacked Merlin's clan with that plague."
"Oh," Gwen said, with blank surprise. She'd mostly forgotten that detail, that perhaps they'd be facing enemy magic, in this battle. "That's for sure, then?"
"I think so. Merlin didn't say who. But – he was angry, more than scared?"
Gwen nodded; that detail made her feel better. It wasn't good, whatever they discovered, but Merlin thought he could handle it. "Do you know how they found out?"
"Aithusa, maybe?" Freya ventured. Gwen glanced at her friend to see Freya's hand spread flat over her belly in an unconscious gesture Gwen knew well. Having had three, herself.
"Have you told him?" she asked. She'd been surprised, initially, that Freya had come with the other two healers from Lionys – and Merlin himself an accomplished physician, though likely he would be involved with the fighting side of the battle – but then again, she'd been surprised that the younger woman had come with the party from Lionys ten years ago, and then proved herself invaluable.
Freya shot her a startled look, but Gwen only raised an eyebrow, and she gave a breathless chuckle. "Yes, he knows," she admitted. "I wasn't going to tell anyone else, until it was obvious…"
For good reason, Gwen knew, and put her arm around Freya's slender shoulders as they strolled.
"I haven't told him…" Freya said in a low voice, and came to a halt. "I think… it might be a boy."
"Oh?" Gwen didn't understand the significance, right away. Then – "Oh. How do you know? I mean, what makes you think –"
"The other day. When Kilgarrah was killed." Freya glanced at her, pressing lightly against her stomach. "I felt it. When it happened, before Arthur told me. And I can't see that being a coincidence, or any other reason for it, except –"
"If you're carrying Merlin's son," Gwen finished. And found she couldn't suppress a smile, at the thought. "The next dragonlord. Have you talked to Hunith?"
Freya shook her head. "I think she guessed, though."
"But why haven't you told Merlin?" Gwen said, pulling her arm to continue to walk. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled."
"Because, what if something happens?" Freya said. "He would be devastated, Gwen. Even though he loves Marya so much, and I think it honestly wouldn't matter to him either way, if we had another child, boy or girl. But to think, to expect a son – and then lose him? I can't, Gwen, not when they're facing a battle at Badon hill."
A thought occurred to her – she wondered if the unborn child's connection to the dragon meant he was destined to be the next dragonlord – and if so, that meant he would be carried to term safely… But she couldn't mention the fancy to either Freya or Merlin for confirmation – it wouldn't be fair to raise hopes if it wasn't true – and she understood Freya's decision a little better.
"Well, it's going to be an early morning, that's for sure," she said as they reached the corner where their ways parted. "And if your husband sleeps half as restlessly as mine when he's got something this critical on his mind, you won't get much sleep anyway."
Freya smiled sadly. "Mine can perform a sleeping spell, if he thinks he's keeping me awake."
"Surely he doesn't do magic on you without your permission," Gwen said, releasing her in pretended shock.
Freya turned to go. "No, I say yes because – he feels better, sometimes, knowing I'm in a deep sleep…"
Gwen gave a little wave, and watched her out of sight. Shaking her head and thinking, she was a good match for Merlin, after all.
Back in the guest chambers she shared with Arthur, Gwen waited.
Time passed.
She bathed. And brushed her hair out, dismissing the pretty blonde maid Morgana had assigned to her upon their arrival, in order to use up more time doing it herself.
It was dark. And Arthur hadn't returned. Patience gave way to exasperation, then concern.
And a knock at the chamber door had her starting up, heart in her throat. Arthur wouldn't knock. She hurried to open it, and found Lancelot in the corridor outside. A quick glance to either side showed no Arthur – no guard either – probably they were needed elsewhere.
"My lady, might I speak with Arthur a moment?" he said. "I will be brief, I –"
"He's not here, Lancelot," she said. "He hasn't come back yet from inspecting the men – or equipment, or horses, or whatever."
"I see." His carefully neutral expression irritated her, suddenly. Because that felt better than worry.
"What is going on?" she asked, then inserted a bit of demanding-queen into her tone. "Lancelot?"
"Perhaps I could speak with you, then, my lady?" he said. "Not here, of course, but there's a seat in the alcove at the end of the hall?"
"Yes," she said. "One minute – let me get my robe." She retreated into the room, grabbing the garment from where the maid had laid it out across the bed, in her haste simply wrapping it closed, rather than using buttons or belt.
The hall was still deserted except for the knight, waiting patiently at the alcove. She hurried to join him, perching on the seat and crossing her ankles.
"What, then?" she demanded, half afraid he would confirm her fears about Merlin's prophecy and Morgana's vision.
"King Arthur and Lady Morgana," he said. "And the question of joined war or peaceful compromise."
"They argued earlier," Gwen said. "I know they don't agree on which is the best approach to resolving the situation."
"What is your opinion?" he asked her. A bit absently, and with his eyes on the stone floor, as though he was unsure, himself, and had maybe forgotten who he was talking to.
"My opinion matters little to anyone other than Arthur," she reminded him gently. "It is he who decides, ultimately." They'd discussed it already. She was more inclined to try for a peaceful agreement than for the two armies to come out, swords drawn - but she appreciated that he had a different viewpoint, being a man, a king and warrior, a strategist and leader of men. "I don't understand why this question is so important to Morgana, though."
"I must confess, I don't either," he admitted unhappily, going down on one knee next to her alcove-seat. "I'm not sure His Majesty told you, but he confined Morgana to her quarters over the disagreement, until the army has left Stawell."
Gwen controlled her expression with an effort. That seemed quite harsh for Arthur, even knowing Morgana's temper when crossed – and figuring how the black-haired princess would have reacted to such strictures imposed on her in her own house. It was the sort of heavy-handedness both of them had indicated they felt and resented from their father, at times.
"I can talk to him, I suppose, about lifting that," she said. "He can perhaps rethink his decision if he's cooled off a bit."
Lancelot's expression shifted just slightly, gaining a hint of distaste. "She asked me to pass along a message as well, for you," he said. Gwen leaned forward on her knees. "She asks you to speak with her brother, try to change his mind about the peace-talks. She said, it may be that lives will be spared. Only, she didn't want you to let Arthur know that she'd influenced you, she thought he'd ignore you for spite if he found that out."
She didn't immediately respond. Wanting to be sympathetic without compromising herself or Arthur or their relationship; she had to be careful about what she promised. "You know I shouldn't agree to that –"
"What the hell is going on?" Arthur's voice demanded. Not so much a question as an accusation, as he stepped out from the shadow of a stairway just around the corner.
She jumped, startled; she hadn't heard his footsteps approaching. Lancelot pushed to his feet – as surprised as she, Gwen thought, but better able to cover it.
"I am sorry, my lord," Lancelot said – glancing at her as Arthur did, furious disbelief on his face twisting her heart with a fatalistic sort of guilt she didn't understand. "I came to speak to you, but… you weren't…"
"Lancelot," Arthur said, controlling his expression and his voice. "It is late at night, and you are in a secluded corner with my wife in her nightgown."
"Arthur!" she gasped at his insinuation – though whether he believed the implications or was offended at the possibility of the misunderstanding of anyone else who happened along, she didn't know. And then she realized that the front of her robe was open to the waist – though her nightgown was opaque and dipped no lower than her collarbone.
"No!" Lancelot was shocked from his usual unruffled demeanor. "No, my lord – I would never! I was merely conveying a message from my wife to yours, sire, and –"
"Yes, I heard." His knuckles were white on the hilt of his sword – for an incongruous second, Gwen noticed the new bronze scabbard - his spine very straight, his posture defensive.
She wanted to put her arms around him, soothe and reassure him – but couldn't. Not when he was looking at her like that, and Lancelot was there. It would have the opposite effect, she was afraid. Tears stung her eyes.
"Not a romantic betrayal, then." Ice-blue eyes pierced her accusingly, then Lancelot. "But a political one."
"Sire, there is no betrayal," Lancelot insisted.
"You are dismissed," Arthur said stonily. "Your orders remain unchanged." As though his senior knight was no more than one of the squires-in-training.
Lancelot took no offense. A momentary hesitation only, then he bowed, and murmured acquiescence.
Gwen stood, leaving the robe as it was. Perhaps it had been ill-advised to meet Lancelot here and now and like this, but – "Arthur," she said, taking a step toward him.
He took a step back. "How long, madam –" her heart thumped a wild pained protest at that term – "have you been entertaining petitioners behind my back? And what favors accepted, to sway my judgment?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped back, unable to simply receive the unjust anger and scorn. "You know people come to me with questions and concerns, they have since our coronation, and possibly before. I have never been dishonest with you about it, nor have I ever said anything to you on these matters that I haven't thought through and made up my own mind about – and you know I've never crossed a decision you've made public."
"Don't let Arthur know," he said softly, his eyes blazing. "He'll ignore you from spite."
"Oh, for goodness sake," she said, self-conscious about arguing in a corridor in someone else's home in her nightclothes, and a bit angry and hurt that he was allowing this – choosing this – for their last night together before war. "Your sister said that, and you know –"
"Yes," he said. "My sister, who I thought I could trust. And if I'm wrong about her, who else might I be wrong about?"
She felt his words like a physical blow, and two tears dripped on her cheeks when she blinked, though she despised herself for the weakness. She whispered, "I'm your wife, Arthur."
"Yes. And meeting another man clandestinely late at night in –"
A sob stuck in her chest and she refused to release it. Instead she dropped her head and pushed past him, escaping the pain of this bewildering argument, back into their room.
He didn't follow her.
She went first to the velvet-padded dressing-table stool and cried. Very hard for a few moments, her own anger at his unfairness, then a bit of bitter misery at his stubbornness and refusal to listen, then in self-pity that she was alone, that he hadn't come to try to talk about it calmly, understand it, end and comfort the hurt she felt, that he'd caused.
Finally when she was through with the indulgence of tears, she wiped her nose and eyes. Got up, extinguished most of the candles, and went to bed. Where she curled up very small and tried very hard to slip into oblivious slumber.
It was a while before she succeeded.
A/N: Merlin's magic on the scabbard-mount roughly translates: Sheath, hold/keep royal blood/life of Arthur Pendragon (for the) preservation of life.
The healing spell is one used in ep.1.13 "Le Morte d'Arthur". No irony there, huh.
The spell for the raven was used by Morgana in ep.5.4 "Another's Sorrow".
PS, as far as the condensation of Arthur's name to 10 symbols goes, entirely my fabrication.
