"The Saxons have completed entrenching themselves near the Plains of Peredor."
At the scout's report, mutters and hushed discussions immediately break out over the Council of Kings. Morgana, sitting to the foot of the table as according her lower rank as princess, brings her hand to her temples; she swears she can feel the beginnings of a headache.
"Report on the details of their camp," Arthur orders, sitting far away from her at the head of the table. Morgana bites her lips as she listens to the scouts rattle off a list of figures and descriptions.
The Saxons' camps are made to last. That meant they intended to keep the united forces here- they would not budge from this spot until either they were decimated or Albion was conquered. Morgana sighs inwardly.
If only Arthur had allowed the second wave of camp-makers, escorted this time by more troops than the last, to be ambushed and eliminated, this would not been happening. Morgana cannot help but resent Arthur's adamant command that no such action would be condoned by him.
His honor is commendable, but he should not have interfered from letting others do the unsavory deeds in his place. His censure could very well be the catalyst to their defeat. If the armies are not allowed to be mobile, Albion loses the only real advantage they had: being able to choose the terrain of battle.
As the scout finishes his recitation, Queen Morgause leans forward.
"Has there been any suspicious movements sighted?"
Morgana understands- her sister wants to know exactly when the battle is expected to commence. But the scout seems thrown by the question, stammering little tidbits about scavenging habits and raid patterns. Morgause cuts him off.
"Have they shown any sign of aggression?" she asks again.
The scout swallows. "My lady, the main bulk of the army is marching to meet us."
Instant pandemonium. Morgana goes numb as the entire Council lurches to their feet, shouting.
They're coming. There are a thousand and one things to prepare before they commence, but it's begun. How could the scouts have not noticed the Saxons preparing to attack?
She looks to Arthur. He's a little paler, but he looks calm. Morgana listens as Arthur raises his voice over the din.
"We attack as planned. We have had a weeks' grace to prepare; our men are ready. Tend to your troops- we will march to meet them at my signal."
Morgana lets out a breath of relief as the Council of Kings all hasten to obey. Arthur gives another series of orders as they file out. Morgana waits for the higher ranking kings and queens to make their way out before walking to the exit herself.
Just as she's about to lift the tent flap, a hand on her shoulder stops her. Morgana flinches before she can stop herself, then turns around as the hand is lifted as if she's scalded it.
There's a strange expression on Arthur's face- it isn't anger, but it's not quite brooding either. The tent is alone but for the two. Morgana nervously wets her lips.
Arthur has been more distant from her since her little accident. She's fine now, of course- it has been a week, and the bruises are starting to fade away- but what hurts her is that he is slipping away from her.
"You're alright?" Arthur asks with mendacious casualness. Morgana looks at him, trying to determine whether it is a brief comradely inquiry or actual concern. "What does it matter to you?" she wants to snap at him.
If it was Arthur, her ally and King of Camelot, she would have. He cares for her, after all, and they are comfortable enough to bicker regularly. But this is Arthur, High King of Albion. Morgana cannot tell if even the concern he had shown by visiting her tent after her fall from the horse had been on account of actually caring whether she was alright, or simply the duty of a king to ensure the well-being of his generals. Especially after the raid of that morning- she can't even be certain that he wants her to remain with him.
In the end, she settles for giving him a short nod. "As well as can be, my lord."
Arthur's face shutters, and Morgana tries to figure out if that was the wrong thing to say. He's been so distant, it doesn't feel right to call him by only his name anymore- and she doesn't want to risk the rebuke he might give if she oversteps the new boundaries that have sprung up since the incident. She doesn't want to risk losing him entirely.
Lost in thought, she nearly doesn't catch the next thing he says to her.
"And you're sleeping enough?"
Morgana nods again. "Of course. Thank you for your concern."
It's not a lie- she has been sleeping better. Arthur had pulled her from missions and active scouting- whether that had been to let her recover or because he doesn't trust her anymore, she doesn't want to know- and the phantoms from the massacre of the camp-followers had long faded away. She'd slept better in the past week than the last two months of campaigning. But Arthur's piercing eyes examine her as if he doesn't believe her words.
He suddenly takes her left arm and pulls the sleeve up to reveal the fading bruises of the fall. Morgana snatches her hand away, startled. Arthur's lips twist. Neither speak for a long moment.
"Be safe," he finally says. He turns to leave.
Morgana clenches her hands into fists before she can reach for him. She wants to hold him, to reassure him that he could do this. If only she could be sure that was what he wanted.
She watches Arthur walk out of the tent. The canvas dwelling is empty but for her, and Morgana relaxes her hands before striding out to make her own preparations.
"Charge!"
The thunderous sound of Albion's cavalry charging ahead merges with the shouts of men attacking from both sides.
Arthur can see his troops spread to form the pincer as they have been trained to; he's dismayed to note that it's not as coordinated as in the drills. But it serves its purpose well enough. They meet the Saxons head-on, the clashing of swords filling the air as the battle begins.
Arthur nods to Merlin, who rides beside him.
"This'll work," he says, more to reassure himself than Merlin.
The sorcerer grunts as he starts picking off magicians. Arthur is a conspicuous target, and he can weed out the magic-users just by following the offensive magic surging against him to the source.
Arthur himself hacks at the oncoming foot soldiers from his horse. The Saxons that have managed to pass the polearms of the front line are swarming in, trying to break the formation from within. Arthur uses his mounted advantage to the fullest, leaving men dead behind him like leaves in autumn.
Lives must have meant something, once upon a time. They must still, in some remote village. But this is not the time to contemplate the enormity of murder. Survival first, then winning the battle. Reflection can come afterwards.
Arthur looks around, checking to see that the formation is holding. Camelot still holds the pivotal point, but all of Albion is steadily advancing. There's Morgause with a feral grin on her lips as she butchers the oncoming troops from her horse, Cenred efficiently doing the same besides her. Bedwyr is acquitting himself well, commanding the troops of Caerleon in his mother's place. Alined stays to the rear of the troops as usual, but he cannot help that now.
And Morgana- she's not as deftly fatal as he remembers her. Another sign that she's not back to her full strength yet- she's slower, less fluid. She's still a far sight better than any of the men near her though; certainly better than Keredic, who looks like he's playing make-believe compared to Morgana's cold competence.
Keredic is an idiot when it comes to martial arts. Arthur has known that since the prince visited during the brief engagement to Mithian. But it's one thing to know it, and another thing to witness the sheer incompetence firsthand. It's a wonder that the man hasn't gotten himself killed yet; probably it's his proximity to Morgana and the relative safety of his mount that's saved him. If things go wrong, Keredic would get Morgana killed along with him.
Arthur looks away, clamping down the worry that rises at the thought. Morgana will be alright- he has to believe that. There is a battle in progress and Arthur cannot afford distractions. He turns his mind back to the battlefield in front of him.
He begins the slaughter again.
Morgana squints up at the midafternoon sun for a brief instant before returning her attention to the battle raging on around her. She doesn't know how long she's been slashing and hacking at the never-ending onslaught of Saxons. The Cornwall-Nemeth forces have kept up their front well; though soldiers from both have mingled, there is still a clear division. It would be catastrophic should the Saxons manage to punch through them and attack from the rear as well.
"Don't think it'll stop anytime soon," Keredic pants from beside her, maintaining an awkward seat on his horse. The prince is red with exertion, seemingly swinging his sword any which way in the blind hope that it'll hit someone. Morgana can hardly believe that Rodor's even let his son enter the battlefield, stunningly incompetent as Keredic is. It's not a matter of contempt, though she's grown up in a nation always ready for war. Keredic is a good man. But he will die here more likely than not if he's allowed to stay. He should be with the auxiliary forces, in the healer's tent or doing the logistics. Morgana makes up her mind.
"It's an even battle," she tells him, "the tides could turn any minute now." She takes a pause to stab a charging Saxon knight as he rides past her, ducking to avoid the man's own countering strike. She moves onto the foot soldier to the left before the knight topples to the ground. Without looking back at Keredic, who undoubtedly is looking squeamish, she continues.
"Go to the rear of our troops. We need someone there to command if the enemy gets past us."
It's a complete lie, of course. But the fighting is concentrated where the two forces meet, and Keredic will be protected and away from the fighting. Sweet as he is, the prince is nothing but extra baggage right now.
"And leave you here?" Keredic splutters. He glances at his father, who is roaring savagely as he charges past to engage two foot soldiers at once, with a hint of apprehension. "My father would never forgive me if I left the forefront."
Morgana tones down the snap of annoyance that comes to her voice at having to take care of the prince. "Your father would never forgive you if you got yourself killed now. We need a command center at the rear."
Keredic looks past to his father again. "My father…"
This time, Morgana does not bother to curb her harshness.
"Go. If your father says anything, I pulled rank on you as proxy of the King of Cornwall. Now go!"
The prince does not bother to hide his relief as he nods gratefully and rides to the back. Morgana lets out a breath, leaning to the side to cut the throat of a man with a mace. She curses as someone else's sword finds its mark in her left leg.
Wincing, she swings herself back to strike back at her attacker. The man is a skilled fighter, and he ducks under her blow, getting past her guard. She blocks the man's lunge with a flick of her sword, then draws her dirk from its place on her saddle and plunges it into his ribcage. The shorter sword comes out with a sickening sucking sound as she pulls it out of the dying body.
Morgana takes a cursory glance at her bleeding calf. It's not so deep that it's going to be life-threatening, but it burns. She should consider herself lucky that it's only the muscle that's been sliced, and not a nerve or a major blood vessel. Whispering a few words, Morgana gets the fabric of her trousers to bunch around the wound, effectively staunching the flow of blood and acting like a bandage. The steady pressure makes the leg at least usable despite the throbbing pain. She continues fighting.
The Saxons keep coming, and Morgana loses track of how many she's killed and how many of her own men has fallen. It's an indeterminable strike-parry-kill that she can lose herself into. By the time Morgana snaps out of the near-trance of bloodwrath, she can see the Camelot banners near her.
Morgana frowns- this is not good. Has the pincer formation gotten closer to one another? She looks around.
The men are stepping over the corpses of their comrades to fight. The battleground is crowded with death and the dying; the ground is wetted dark with blood. Looking up at the sun again, she guesses that more than two hours have passed.
She glimpses red at the edges of her vision. Lancelot nods rigidly to her as he rides past, leaving men dead in his wake. There is a slice on his cheek- she distantly notes that Guinevere isn't going to be happy that her husband's pretty face is going to be marred. Gwaine is visible, a little ahead- this must be the pivot of the pincer, held by Camelot's forces. The knight acknowledges her with a rakish grin.
"Missed me, my lady?" he purrs, even as he kicks his adversary in the face from his mount and finishes it with a killing blow. Morgana rolls her eyes.
"How could I not?" she shouts back, "Not when you have such perfect hair."
Gwaine's grin gets even wider. He slices his way to her. "No one compliments me like you do."
Morgana's sword bites into human flesh, and Gwaine turns to engage another foe. Morgana can't help giggling at the absurdity, even as she cuts a man's thigh to the bone.
"Perhaps you should start showering me in compliments," she laughs mirthlessly. Gwaine's smile fades just a little.
"My lady, you do realize how unnerving you are when you do that," he tells her.
Morgana laughs again, with even less humor than before.
"I'm always unnerving. That's not a good compliment, Sir Gwaine."
Gwaine shrugs, then curses as a sword slices his horse's flank and it rears. Morgana runs the Saxon through as he takes aim at Gwaine.
"Much obliged," the knight says. He glances at her. "I suppose we'll be seeing each other around, Princess Morgana."
Morgana turns her horse to meet an oncoming Saxon knight. "I suppose we will. Any chance the High King will begin the second phase soon?" Gwaine shrugs.
"About Arthur-" he grunts as he blocks an axe swung at his head, "You shouldn't push him away, milady." The axe-wielder is neatly dispatched as Morgana splutters.
"I- you're giving me relationship advice? Now?" She's astonished at the gall of this knight. Unbelievable. She's pushing him away? She's so distracted by the sudden words that she temporarily forgets she's in the middle of a battle.
"Watch it!" the knight with bared arms- Pellinore? Percival? That's probably it, Percival. And really, short sleeves in battle?- barks as he swipes at a Saxon who had been charging at her back. Morgana whirls, giving the knight a grateful nod.
"Thank you, Sir Percival," she says as she swings her sword to strike another Saxon. The knight gives a grunt, so she supposes his name is Percival. Gwaine gives her a mocking salute and rides into the thick of battle again. She's at the edge of the Camelot and Cornwall-Nemeth troops, so she can still keep an eye on her troops.
Morgana looks around, assessing the progress of the battle. There's no clear advantage on either side yet, and they haven't started the second offensive, after all. Her gaze snaps to a conspicuous figure astride a charger, red cape swirling around him. Arthur. She also sees the two Saxon knights who are charging at him from the side as he fights a third. Merlin is nowhere to be seen, and that's puzzling. Morgana urges her horse towards him.
Arthur notices her and quickly slits the Saxon knight's throat.
"Morgana?"
She ignores it, riding past him to intercept the Saxon's sword before it is driven into Arthur's back. The two Saxon knights retreat a little, surprised by her sudden appearance. As the first Saxon charges at her, she ducks the blade and plunges her sword into the horse's neck. The Saxon falls, clearly not having expected her to go for his mount. Morgana's sword bites into his chest as he goes down. She looks up to find the second knight already attacking her. With her left arm, she brings up the dirk to intercept the blow while she aims her sword at his heart. The knight's too fast, though, and immediately parries her sword. Morgana brings it around again to aim for the neck this time, but realizes he's anticipated it when he knocks her hand out of balance, striking out with his own sword. Morgana brings up her dirk.
Crimson blooms on the man's throat as a dirk sprouts from it. Morgana looks to Arthur, nodding as she plucks his dirk out of the corpse.
"You should keep an eye on your back," she calls as she hands the dirk back to him.
He nods, eyes on her face. Morgana sighs in aggravation.
"Like now," she says. She pushes him aside as the next Saxon tries a surprise attack from the back. A quick stab stops the man in his tracks.
"Brings back memories of when I used to beat you?" she smirks.
Arthur squints. "That never happened," he protests, his eyes mirthful.
Morgana smiles, a little hope rising in her chest. A little hope that soon deflates as she realizes he's probably not focusing on her right now, and this could be an unwanted lapse into old habits. She hesitates as Arthur surveys the battlefield.
"We await your signal, my lord," she tells him carefully. The mirth disappears, and Arthur nods stiffly.
"Merlin is preparing to alert the commanders. We will begin soon."
Morgana turns to meet another Saxon. Cutting him down, she wipes the droplets of blood off her face. Does this remind him of that day in the field? She can't think of that right now. There is a battle to fight.
Merlin's signal comes sooner than later, a magical blare of war-trumpets audible to all of Albion's forces. She nods to Arthur and heads back to the middle of her own troops, barking orders and preparing for the second surge.
There is nothing for it, Morgana thinks as she marshals her men, but seeing her way through this battle.
There is a war going on, after all.
Arthur unconsciously frowns at the mirage Merlin shows him depicting their troops as they move into position. Escetia is swift as usual, but Clarence and Mercia is keeping up to leave a smooth front. Camelot is holding steady, with the left flank shaking a little. The transitioning of the troops to support the front for the secondary charge has left some parts of the pincer dangerously thin, but that cannot be helped. Arthur takes a deep breath.
"This is it."
Merlin nods, and mutters the spells for the second signal. The syncopated beat of the war drums fill the air. Arthur raises his sword aloft.
"For Albion!"
At his cry, the legions of the united forces let out a wordless roar, charging forward as one. The Saxons falter, and Arthur butchers them to lead his men on. Slowly, the Albion forces gain ground.
The aggressive move means that there are more enemies to face, always moving forward. Merlin's eyes flash continuously as he summons more and more forces of nature. The signature whirlwind rises from the grass to fling the Saxons away.
Arthur glances at the mirage again. They have definitely pushed the Saxons back; at this rate, this could be the decisive pull for victory. He looks at the diagram again, and his heart drops.
Olaf's men simply haven't kept up. There's a gap between Cantia and Mercia that the Saxons could exploit at any time. Already, he can see some of the enemy taking the weak spot to punch through their front.
"Merlin," he hisses, "send word to Alined that they are to support the gap between Cantia and Mercia. Now!"
Merlin breaks off the whirlwind spell. "One minute, Arthur."
As the warlock chants the spell, Arthur glances at the positions with apprehension. The Saxons were gathering to make full use of the gap now, and if they didn't intervene soon, the tables would turn.
Arthur tears his eyes away to focus on the battle at hand. A Saxon general charges at him, and he locks swords, using his other hand to throw his dirk again at the man's throat. The man dies with a gurgle. He drives his sword left and down, catching another Saxon on the skull. The man drops like a stone as he turns his attention back to the diagram. He grits his teeth as he realizes his mistake. By moving Clarence to bolster the troops, he's made the semi-circle front smaller. The Saxons flood through, and now he can see that both their formations are shaken.
Arthur curses, blocking yet another sword that comes his way. He lashes out, fully beheading the attacker. It's gruesome, but effective. He takes another look at the state of things.
There is nothing he can do. The troops are confused; he can see the legions starting to break formation and mingle. Cenred and Morgause's troops have cut through the Saxon's lines contrary to orders, while Logres has spread too thinly. Odin and the Meredor army has brutalized the left flank, which is good, but he moves independently of the main army.
"Merlin!" he shouts, "Can you talk to all of the commanders at once?"
The sorcerer swears. "It'd take too long!" he hollers over the noise of the battle around them. "It took me long enough to locate one- I can't do them all within the hour, let alone at once!"
Arthur curses at that. Beyond the general signals, they had not bothered to settle on more complex communications.
The battle plan, their drills and planning- it was for naught. Arthur feels sharply the extent of his control over his so-called subjects. The kings may listen to him in the council, but in the battlefield he may as well not be commanding.
As he watches, Nemeth breaks away from Cornwall to drive into the Saxon lines. He can practically see Morgana trying to cover them by spreading her troops out, thinning the front in the process. Caerleon comes to bolster them, but is waylaid by a sudden surge of Saxons. All of the Albion forces are scattered. It's turned out into an outright melee, and now everything is up to chance. There can be no winner from this.
Arthur thinks it out while his body mechanically fells men. Each men can kill only so many before they too fall. If they have even numbers, it's going to be a bloody stalemate. But the Albion soldiers are already disoriented from the break in formation…
He grimly shakes off his thoughts and turns his mind to the butchering of men. If this is doomed to failure, he will do his part to decimate their armies.
The fighting soon settles into a rhythm of attack and defend, picking off soldiers from his horse. Merlin continues the whirlwind spell until he is too drained to do so. Arthur orders him off the field to recover, and the warlock gratefully and discreetly rides out of the battle. And then the world melds into the monotony of blood and violence again.
In the end, neither calls the retreat first. The fighting winds down as the sun sets over the piles of dead soldiers and the bloodied plain. In the cover of darkness, both armies drift apart and trudge back to their separate camps.
As Arthur becomes aware of the world again, the crushing bitterness rises in his throat.
It may be a stalemate, but this is failure, straight and simple. He has failed Albion as High King. The total lack of control he has shown today may be a bigger blow to the united forces than even a loss.
He passes a hand over his blood-splattered face, nudging his horse to make the weary journey back to camp.
The nightfall is heavy.
The camp is depressingly still. Morgana can feel the dampened spirits dragging the men down; even the usual noises filling the air seem halfhearted. Alone in her tent, she leans her head against the central wooden pole holding the structure up.
This battle should have been a triumph. Arthur needed it to be a victory, to stop the burgeoning fears and doubts of the kings from affecting his leadership. He needed it to prove to himself that he was worthy of being High King, to be the man that would drive the Saxons out and save Albion.
Silly Arthur. Beyond victories and defeats, beyond the insecurity and self-doubt, he is a king born. She'd poured herself into raising him high, and she wouldn't see him brought down. Sighing, she tosses aside the initial reports given to her.
There are an estimated twenty-thousand men in the Saxon invading force, of which three quarters are opposing them now. They had left the remaining troops occupying Cornwall and besieging other citadels; Fort Serin, a pivotal point between Cornwall and Escetia, has recently fallen. The Albion forces number at least twenty-five thousand and could enlist more; but the majority is spread out defending the different nations. In this battle, they had matched the Saxons man for man.
And in estimated casualties and deaths, as well. There is no outcome to this first real battle. No defeat or win- not even a patch of dirt retaken. Just men and women slaughtered in a test of strength. And that is as crushing as a loss.
Morgana had killed, again and again. There is more proof to it than the blood dripping from her hands, long washed away. She clenches her eyes shut against the advancing specters.
Stupid magic. Stupid Sight. It rarely shows her anything useful; the future is too vague to make much of, and unless she undergoes extensive training in the discipline it would stay that way. It would take time and resources she can't afford.
And there's no guarantee that it will stop the ghosts of her victims from appearing to her. She opens her eyes again, gasping, before the spirits of the dark emerge to haunt her mind. There are those murmurs, always those cursed murmurs, rising in a crescendo as soon as her mind becomes lax. She's gotten used to blocking them out; she barely notices their presence when she's busy. And they don't show themselves too boldly when there is someone with her.
She shivers; right now, she wishes someone, anyone, was in the room with her. This melancholy would go away as soon as she was distracted. Perhaps she should read over the casualty reports again.
As soon as she raises herself to fetch the parchment she's tossed aside, she hears footsteps growing more and more audible, heading to her tent. She tenses, hand straying to the dagger strapped at her hips.
The footsteps stop outside the flap. She relaxes. If it was an intruder, he or she would have burst in by now, weapons aloft.
"Morgana?"
She bites her lips as her heart beats a little faster. It's Arthur. His voice is huskier than usual, but she'd recognize it anywhere. The specters crowding her draw back, past the edges of her vision. She hurriedly adjusts the tunic and man's breeches she's wearing, smoothing the wrinkles as best she can.
"May I come in?" Arthur's voice is quieter, devoid of his usual confidence. Morgana fiddles with her hair nervously.
"Come in," she calls. She hates the way her voice shakes as she speaks. She gets up as the flap lifts and Arthur walks in.
It's not just his voice that's been stripped of his usual spirit. Arthur looks tired, spent from the battle. Morgana resists the urge to curtsey, to address him by his formal title and to once again put up the walls that have risen between them.
This isn't the High King come to speak to her. It's Arthur, the all too fallible man. It's not the time to retreat to the safety of empty courtesies. Morgana grips the fabric of her breeches nervously.
"Arthur," she greets. He looks at her, eyes gaunt and hollow. It frightens her- there's none of the fire she's so used to seeing from him. Instinctively, she walks closer.
He doesn't respond as she hesitantly places a hand on his arm. Tugging gently, she leads him to the only chair. He sinks down, and she seats herself on the cot.
He doesn't speak. Morgana sits in silence as he broods. She wants to reach out to him, to pull him out of this mood he's in just like he's keeping away the ghosts with his mere presence, but she doesn't know how. Just when she is about to beg him to talk, he opens his mouth to speak.
"You've been looking at the casualty reports," he says tonelessly. Morgana glances at the roll of parchment on the ground, then moves to pick it up. She sets it down on the rough stand by the cot. Arthur looks at her.
"We might as well have lost the battle," he mutters. "The soldiers and commanders both-it's disheartened them."
"Arthur-" she begins, but is cut off.
"We've lost as many men as they have. There was no strategic benefit won from this battle, and even now they're resting in their camps. We're pinned here as much as they are, until there's a decisive battle." His hands curl into fists as Morgana watches. "I've failed them all," he whispers, "They trusted me to win the battle for Albion."
Morgana can't bear this. This self-doubt is painful to watch.
"They still do," she snaps. Arthur looks at her stonily, and Morgana is suddenly angry.
"And what does this moping and self-flagellation do for Albion?" She demands. "Albion needs its High King, Arthur. We can't hope to win without you."
Arthur stands up, looming over her. "Five thousand men dead, Morgana. Five thousand in one fell swoop. What sort of High King allows that to happen?"
"A human one." Morgana lifts her chin. "If you think you can prevent deaths in war, Arthur Pendragon, you've got another thought coming. The High King's duty is to ensure that we fight together. To win this war. This battle is only the beginning."
"Don't you hear the kings already starting to mutter?" Arthur asks bitterly. "I can barely keep them together long enough to have a cohesive strategy. I can't guarantee the next battle won't turn out like this."
Morgana has had enough. She bursts up from her seat, taking a step towards him. The height difference between them is large, but she faces him squarely.
"You are our High King," she says, jabbing a finger into his chest to emphasize her words. "You are the one we have chosen to lead us. Nothing will change that. You're a better man than this, Arthur."
"I don't know what to do!" He suddenly shouts. His voice cracks. "They look to me for guidance, Morgana, reassurance I can't give. I can't see a way for us to win this war swiftly."
The anger drains from Morgana, and her hands drop to her sides.
"Nobody asks that of you, Arthur," she says quietly. "All that we ask is that you keep faith alive for us."
Arthur closes his eyes and slumps back down on the chair. Morgana lowers herself on the cot again. Neither move for a while.
Arthur breaks the silence first. "You were right," he admits quietly. "We wouldn't be pinned defending this camp if the support for the Saxons had been eliminated when we had the chance."
Morgana looks at him in surprise. She bites her lips before answering.
"It was necessary," she says, "but you are a far better person than I. You would not sacrifice your honor to gain that advantage."
"There is no honor in war." Arthur laughs bitterly. "I should have remembered that."
"No." The strength of her voice surprises both of them. "It is the difference between a knight and a common fighter, a High King and a commander. You can't lead without honor, Arthur. It's your principles that made you the only High King we could have raised." She meets him in the eye. " You are a king to your bones. It's who you are."
"Morgana-" Arthur starts. She shakes her head, smiling bitterly.
"You can't be tainted by the use of dishonorable tactics, Arthur. Let others take that fall." She spreads her once bloodstained hands almost reflexively. "We're willing to do it."
Arthur looks at her with an unreadable expression on his face. The tent is silent but for their breaths.
"You'd sacrifice your own morals," he says in a strange voice, "to protect mine. You don't enjoy the killing." His tone rises at the end of a sentence, almost like a question.
"I find no pleasure in taking lives," Morgana whispers. She can't believe- Arthur believed that she enjoyed killing? That- that she was some vicious mercenary thirsting for blood? The ghosts, the feel of her sword as it cuts through human flesh, the voices that won't leave her alone, flit through her mind. "I- Arthur, you can't think that I- I like the brutality...I-" her throat seizes up, and she bites back a choked sound. Arthur's still watching her, but she can't control the wave of nausea that comes at the thought.
"It is a means to an end," she chokes out. "If it means that you unite Albion in driving back the Saxons, that this war ends in our victory, so be it. I will do what is necessary. I-I don't..." the words die out, and Morgana shakes her head slowly. She doesn't let the tears pool. "My hands are already tainted," she finally says, "let mine be dyed red in your stead."
Morgana is suddenly surrounded by strong arms. She can't stop a gasp from escaping her lips as she realizes she's being embraced by Arthur. Her fingers unconsciously curl into his shirt.
It's nice, being pressed against Arthur's broad chest, nice and warm and safe. He's clutching her tight, holding her like she's something precious he doesn't want to lose, and she wouldn't have been able to break the embrace even if she wanted to. She lays her cheek against his clavicle. She thinks he might be whispering something into her hair, but she can't hear- and anyways, just the sensation of this embrace is overwhelming for her. In this moment, there are no ghosts haunting her- nothing exists but him and her, bound in the embrace.
Oh, Arthur. How could you not have known? We fight for you, as much as for Albion and for our homes. You inspire that faith. It's all for you. And I will be loyal to the end.
An all too short eternity, and he finally loosens his arms around her. She clings to him anyways, but he slowly pulls back, taking her face in his hands.
"I'm sorry," he rasps. "I'm sorry, Morgana."
She stays perfectly still, and Arthur's hands fall to her waist. It stays there, warm and steady.
Morgana looks up at him, biting her lips in uncertainty. She hesitantly raises a hand to his cheek.
He places a hand over hers, leaning into her touch. Her heart beats a little faster, and she doesn't know why. She lets go of him.
"Am I...forgiven?" She knows Arthur has continued blaming her for the massacre of the camp followers; she had expected it. But she can't find any other word than 'forgiven' to express what she really wants to ask.
Do you still want me by your side? Have I regained your trust? Would you care, if I fall?
She hopes he'll understand- hopes that this is him accepting her and not him simply seeking comfort. It's difficult to ask even that simple question.
Words are so hard around him.
His eyes flash- the bright blue irises flicker in the candlelight. But the intense expression on his face soon gives way to a smirk.
"You wouldn't care either way, Morgana," he says lightly. He looks at her. "I don't see there's anything to forgive."
Morgana blinks. An answering smile threatens to break out, but she holds it back.
"You're insufferable, Arthur."
"No more 'milord High King', is it?" Arthur teases. He sighs in what she knows is mock annoyance. "There goes all the respect you had for me." His dancing eyes give away how pleased he really is that she's gone back to their old familiarity. She grins- she's missed this as well.
"You assume I had respect for you in the first place."
He groans. "I should have gotten Merlin to record what you said before."
"Not a chance," she says, smirking. "I'd never have said it if there was any possibility you could do something like that. After all, I do think of everything."
He rolls his eyes and starts to retort, but then stops halfway. Morgana can see his mind changing thoughts halfway.
Arthur's eyes are suddenly serious.
"You did think of everything, regarding the Saxon camps," he says slowly. "You knew we'd be stuck here if we gave them the chance to build camps."
Morgana lowers her eyes. "They are predictable."
"Predictable?"
"Saxons share the same battle tactics," Morgana says, fiddling with her sleeves. "Smaller bands have attempted to take Cornwall before."
"The camp-followers," Arthur prompts.
"They always try to build a camp, so that they'd keep the main army in one place. If they succeed, they start expanding," she replies. She looks up. "Before the...war between Cornwall and Camelot, I was deployed on my first mission as a general. Saxons had landed on the eastern shore of Cornwall. A preliminary invasion force, of sorts. They'd brought camp followers."
Arthur looks like he knows where this is going. "What happened?"
"I couldn't order them killed. They built their camp, and the Saxons kept my legion keeping them in check while they looted the nearby villages." She shakes her head. "I couldn't do anything. But I learn from my mistakes."
Arthur is silent for a long while. "You knew it'd happen again," he finally says. She raises a shoulder, then lowers it.
"Sometimes, you have to let things happen."
"Sometimes, I should just let you do what you think is right," Arthur says ruefully. Morgana raises an eyebrow.
"Did Arthur Pendragon just admit I was right? The world must be ending."
Arthur shakes his head vehemently. "I never said that. I said what you think is right."
"Arthur, you prat, you meant it."
"Uh-uh," he counters. "You can't prove it."
Morgana gets up to punch him, but he easily dodges her blow and slips behind her. Before she can protest, she's enveloped in his arms again. She can't really find words to complain after that.
Arthur leans his head on the exposed skin between her neck and shoulders, his arms encircling her waist from the back. Morgana shivers, but Arthur shows no notice.
"Next time, just explain to me what you're doing," he tells her. "Save both of us a lot of headaches."
"I wasn't aware I was so important to you," she coos mockingly. His arms tighten around her.
"I'd miss your empty-headedness," he says, voice deliberately light. But she can feel the rare warmth emanating from it.
"Arthur," she says, trying to pull away. "Let go."
He doesn't budge. "I like it like this."
"Did you drink something again?" she says, sighing. She can feel a blush starting on her cheeks. "Please let go."
Reluctantly, he lowers his arms. She walks away, turning to look at him.
"Are you going to stay all night?" she asks.
"Are you going to let me?" Morgana swears she can hear a note of hope in the teasing voice.
"You have things to attend to," she reminds. He sighs, but turns to go.
"Good night," Morgana calls after him. He stops, then walks back to her. She raises an eyebrow.
Without looking away from her, he takes her hand and gently kisses it, lips brushing her knuckles. Morgana licks her lips unconsciously.
"Good night," he says, voice suddenly deeper. Before Morgana can reply, he flips open the tent flap and walks out.
It's a good thing, because there's no way she could have explained away the blush that comes in full force soon after.
A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this chapter- please tell me if the battle scenes or anything is tedious. Any feedback is welcome!
Honestly. Reviews make this writer work faster!