Gwen joined Arthur by the fire, settling down a few feet away from him and tucking her cloak around her shoulders. During the time she had been indoors with Morgana it had gotten dark; the night was starlit and cool, like the previous evening, while the blackthorn trees made vaguely threatening, spiky shadows in the background.

"How is she?" Arthur passed what she assumed was the remaining portion of supper over, rather clumsily wrapped in a bundle of leaves.

"Thank you...the same as before. As though she's asleep. I wish there was something we could do." She ate quietly, pensively.

"It's well we came. Merlin would have starved before he left her side," Arthur said, with a brusqueness that Gwen suspected he was feigning in order to conceal any real concern.

"He cares a great deal for her." Gwen watched him as she said this, just waiting to see if he dared reply with something aggravating. Go on, Arthur Pendragon. Something dismissive about servants, or a 'what nonsense'...Her imagination delighted in the possibilities as she considered how she might, in turn, respond to such a reaction. But he merely agreed with a sober: "Yes."

Gwen took a moment to regroup. Though tentatively pleased, she persisted, "What do you think about that?"

"Frankly, I can't pretend such a possibility ever occurred to me." Arthur picked up a stick and began pushing escaping coals back into the confines of the rock circle. "But then again—" and a touch of bitterness crept into his voice—"I didn't know he was a sorcerer, either."

She was, for a moment, sorry for having pressed the matter. Obviously he felt some degree of personal injury, even if it was only wounded pride, for not having been aware of either of Merlin's secrets. "I did not know myself," she said, gently.

"You hid your surprise well."

The doubt in his tone offended her, and Gwen sat up straighter. "That is not fair. It was you who told me that Merlin had confessed to having magic. I simply didn't think it was as ridiculous an idea as you did." Arthur opened his mouth to speak but she continued rapidly so as to prevent him. "He may have been your manservant but he was my friend, and I've always thought there was more to him than he cared to let on. Certainly he's not a fool."

"Not an utter one perhaps," Arthur grumbled reluctantly. She remained pointedly quiet and after a few minutes he shot her a more conciliatory look. "I'm sorry, Guinevere. If you say you didn't know, I should believe you. It's just...I don't like to think you would hide something from me. Particularly since we talked about being honest with each other."

"Of course."

"Good." He gave her an endearingly crooked smile.

"Yes," Gwen confirmed. "So...where does this bring us?"

"Lancelot," Arthur said promptly.

"How does that bring us to Lancelot?" she inquired.

"You said you would be honest."

Gwen stared up at the sky with its winking stars, nervousness building in her stomach. She twisted her hands in her lap, rubbing her knuckles with her thumbs.

"Do you love him?"

Arthur spoke abruptly and she was momentarily shocked by the directness of the question, having expected something more oblique or general.

What should I say? She couldn't dissemble. But telling the truth seemed as though it would put an irrevocable end to some of those secret dreams and hopes she'd had for her future. One kind of future, anyway. And Gwen wasn't naïve or impractical enough to think that one could build a future upon "someday things could be different"—which was all Arthur had given her. True, Lancelot hadn't proposed a future together either, at least not in words, but Gwen didn't doubt the devotion shown in his behavior.

It was just she didn't share that devotion.

Honesty, then.

She pressed her lips together for a moment so hard that it hurt, and said, "No."

And then she was overcome by a wave of self-consciousness too strong to be ignored, and she quickly scrambled to her feet, moving away from the fire, from the intimacy of all of it. Of course there was nowhere to go, not unless she wanted to thrash about in the blackthorns bordering the clearing, and he caught up with her in a matter of strides anyway.

She halted, gazed outwards, strove for a sense of self-possession.

Arthur walked around her. Stopped in front, giving her a view of his chest. (Which was not unpleasant.) "At first I thought you asked Lancelot to come with you because he was a good second choice. As an escort. And that made me angry but then I thought what if—" He hesitated and cleared his throat. "You had some kind of feelings for him."

"I respect him, of course," Gwen faltered, "but I don't feel about him...how I feel for you."

This admission made her cheeks heat and she only dared give him a quick upwards glance because she had, after all, essentially just placed her heart in his hands and she had no idea what he was going to do with it. She needn't have worried about him looking mocking or arrogant. All she saw on his face was an expression of nearly reverential adoration before he leaned in to kiss her, his arms sliding around her waist to pull her close.

She gave a muffled little murmur of surprise at the moment of contact, his warmth and gentle but hungry and seeking mouth against hers. The memory of their first kiss, which had ended almost as soon as it started, flashed through her head, and she was afraid for a second that Arthur was going to set her aside as he had then, as if wondering what he had just done, but he seemed in no hurry to let her go this time. His hands lingered at her waist, then came up to cup her jaw as he asked questions with kisses and challenged insecurities with their lips meeting over and over. There was a wonderfully piercing ache in the pit of Gwen's stomach, which only heightened when he paused for a moment to whisper her name. She forgot that they were in the middle of dark nowhere, that they were supposed to be sitting by the fire a chaste distance apart. She forgot nearly everything.

For a short time.

"Arthur." She broke away reluctantly and pushed at his chest.

"Mm," he mumbled, not seeming inclined to remove his arms from around her.

"We have to..." She wasn't sure how to finish that sentence. Stop, no, that wasn't it, or perhaps it was, but...sit, they had to sit. "Let's go back to the fire."

He gave a groan of vague objection but allowed her to lead him back anyway.

Once within the semi-circle of the light the fire threw out, they eyed each other.

"Sit with me." Arthur held out his arm.

She wanted to, but could not resist observing, "That sounded like an order."

"Oh. I meant to beg," Arthur said, with such a candid lack of guile that she nearly laughed, and came to him, snuggling up against his side, closing her eyes because the ache in her stomach was telling her again that this was so right, regardless of tomorrow or of any other concerns.

His arm closed around her again, and she felt him wrapping the edge of his cloak around them both. "Sleep if you're tired, Guinevere," he said, into her hair. "I'll keep you safe."

"I know you will," she murmured, feeling, for the moment, quite unreservedly happy.


Morgana didn't want to wake up. What was there to wake up for? Bruises. Pain. The awful memory of her most recent experiences. Here in this removed distant cocoon her mind had fled to, there was, at least, a certain degree of peace. Her mind curled upon itself, snake-like, in layers of defense. It resisted reunion with her body, as if the longer her physical self remained inert, the more time she had to wrap her mind, her soul, in protective structures. So this could never occur again, or if it did, if it had to, she at least wouldn't feel it so deeply. And yet within her there remained a powerful, inescapable desire to rejoin the world, no matter what atrocities had taken place—no matter what had yet to take place. So the two forces pulled her in different ways, one saying wake, Morgana, you need nourishment, sunshine—the other, stay still, in the darkness, you are not ready. Both intensely warning of danger either way.

She lay in limbo; a silent other-world nothingness that felt like neither life nor death. Aware of nothing that happened. Aware of everything that happened.

With an extreme effort of will, she opened her eyes.

It remained dark, and for a few moments she felt an overwhelming sense of panic when she realized her eyes weren't seeing anything. Then, slowly, shapes and shadows began to make sense. It was dark because she was in some sort of building, and the nearby fire was burning low.

She wasn't alone.

She remembered resisting. She remembered the field.

Was this some fresh place of torture?

"Morgana..."

She recognized Merlin's voice before she recognized his face.

For an instant, the sense that she should feel relief; but then the panic faded and a cold hard part of her said he is still a man, one of them, just one of them.

He was kneeling by her side, staring with a peculiarly anguished intensity, his cheekbones like knife edges where the fire shadowed them.

Not to be trusted, not to be true.

She stared back at him, perceiving the worry and confusion in his eyes, but with an analytical detachment, as if she was looking down upon both of them, not really in her own body at all.

He rested his hand lightly on hers. She said through dry and cracked lips, "Don't touch me."

"I'm sorry," he said at once, withdrawing it. "I...I'm glad you're—awake."

As there was nothing she wanted to reply to that, she remained silent.

"Will you drink?" Hesitantly, he offered a water-bag. Though Morgana felt beyond thirst, she knew she needed to comply. But she found she could only tilt her head to the side, not bring it up and forward. After a moment Merlin must have realized this. He knelt closer and put a cautious hand behind her head, easing it up while he brought the vessel to her mouth. The warm leathery water trickled down her throat. She drank only a few mouthfuls and then pressed her lips together, to keep the rising nausea at bay.

"Where are they?" she managed, after he'd let her back down.

He didn't ask for clarification, but said in a constrained voice, "We haven't found them. Yet."

"Who else...is here?"

"Gwen, and Arthur."

"Send them away."

"I can't...they're here for me, and for you."

"I don't need them." She felt her throat beginning to thicken.

"They only want to help. Please, Morgana." He wasn't even trying to hide the desperation in his voice. "I don't know what to do with you."

"Neither will they," she countered, from that part of her that felt marble-hard and unyielding, even while she felt the pinch of tears growing in her eyes.

"Let me send Gwen in—if you don't want me here for the night."

So it was night. She had lost all sense of time, unsurprisingly, and the grayness coming from the hole in the wall might just have easily meant early morning. She lacked the energy to argue further.

And if someone had to be watching her, let it be a woman. Morgana said nothing and after a few more moments Merlin rose and backed away.

It was a little while before she heard Gwen's quiet arrival and felt her presence. Gwen laid a cool, inquiring hand on her forehead, which oddly in contrast to her reaction to Merlin, Morgana didn't resent. "Is there anything I can do?" Gwen murmured.

"Enough has been done," Morgana said. She had regained that sense of distance while left to herself.

"I'm so sorry, Morgana," Gwen said.

It was sincere, she knew that, the other woman had always been a naturally sympathetic creature. But Morgana had never had any use for another's sympathy and she certainly didn't know what to do with it now.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. Merlin is sorry too. Everyone is sorry. What is next, are you going to drag Arthur in to tell me he's sorry?"

Gwen sighed. "You can talk to me however you like, only please don't be too hard on Merlin, he already feels terribly, and as for Arthur I don't think I could convince him to see you under any circumstances. He is mainly concerned with having your...captors...brought to justice."

"He would be," Morgana said, trying to shift position. Everything hurt. And then there was that deep, consuming hurt that was worse than any of it. "Arthur would do the right thing to the exclusion of all else." She distracted herself by thinking of how, though actually she had no inclination to be visited by the prince, his discomfort if forced to do so would be somewhat gratifying.

With deft hands, Gwen adjusted the material that was under her head to make it more comfortable. "Tell me if you're thirsty, or cold. I'll make you some broth in the morning." A few moments later, Morgana felt a damp cloth at her temples, sponging away the accumulated sweat, dirt and blood.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to see Gwen's gently concerned features, not wanting to see anything resembling pity. Pity was like the worst kind of curse there was.