"Your majesty! High King Arthur, sire, Master Merlin needs you urgently."
Arthur rises from where he'd been kneeling, helping one of the wounded rebind his bandages. He frowns at the messenger.
"Has something happened to him? What's happened?"
The boy bows. "Begging your parden, my lord, but Master Merlin told me to find you fast as I could."
He wipes his hands on his trousers. "Where is he?"
"'E's waiting for you, he is, in the council tent." He waves in its general direction. "He didn't look too good."
Arthur nods again and walks towards it. It must be serious; Merlin would come personally if there wasn't something stopping him, and the sorcerer wasn't one to disturb him while he was with his men. That Merlin has summoned him is even more troubling. If it wasn't his friend of many years, Arthur would refuse to come. At the very least, it directly contradicted court etiquette.
He strides into the tent without bothering to announce his presence. The inside is dim, the thick fabric preventing the light from entering. Merlin is sitting hunched over the table, cradling his head in his hands.
"What's wrong?" Arthur says, inwardly concerned. The sorcerer looks up, face gaunt.
"Arthur," he croaks. "It's- it's Morgana."
Icy fear runs down his back. He rushes closer. "What do you mean? Is she hurt? Has something happened?"
Merlin shakes his head slowly. "She's fine. It's- she's-"
Arthur resists the urge to shake the sorcerer by the collar; though he isn't speaking fast enough, Merlin looks far too sick. He clenches his teeth as the other man finds the words.
Finally, Merlin speaks again. "She's- she's pulling memories from the captive generals. With magic, and it's-" he breaks off, clutching his temples again. "the dark magic is interfering with mine."
Arthur freezes. "She's pulling memories."
Merlin looks up. "Arthur, you have to make her stop. She can't do this."
Arthur nods slowly, as if in a trance. Without saying anything, he turns and slowly makes his way out of the tent.
Three down, one to go. That's the only thought keeping Morgana upright as she stumbles away from the captive general. She's tried to go gentle on these prisoners; they might be used for parleying, so she doesn't want to damage their brains permanently. Never mind that it's harder to break into their minds when they've stronger wills than most.
The memories are overwhelming. Keeping track of her own perceptions and sensations is difficult- having access to these foreign thoughts is even worse.
Even with all the thoughts in a different language, the information to be gained by picking the brains of these captured generals is enormous. She turns over the siphoned memories, skimming over the personal ones, trying to focus on their battle formation, council meetings, and drills. There is much to learn, and she cannot dally.
Morgana grabs the parchment and writes down all relevant details and observations, wiping away the perspiration that gathers on her brows. Her hair is damp, and she curses as a vein in her nose finally breaks. The blood trickles down her upper lip, and she staunches the thin stream with her sleeve while she writes. The waves of nausea ebb away soon enough. Tearing thoughts out of others' minds may be the only truly useful skill her Sight-muddled magic gives her- though it leaves her helpless and weak, it allows her to extract valuable information.
She's panting a little when she finally drops the quill and stumbles up. The final general is shouting what is undoubtedly obscenities at her; the other three are slumped over, their stares vacant. Hopefully they aren't permanently damaged- she's taken many pains for them to stay sane.
Kneeling to the general's level, Morgana grabs him by the jaw and forces him to face her. As he glares at her defiantly, she places two fingers on his temple and wills herself to probe into his mind.
The colors come first, as they always do. The dots of light meld into a view, starting to move into the battlefield. There is the gore, the violence of the battle, but she's not interested in that right now. She has to go further in. The view skips to a picture of a darkened tent. The general snarls as she witnesses a woman slip into the tent- and this is neither of interest nor her business, so she hurriedly pushes the memory back and plunges her magic deeper. And she's making progress here, because she's in a tent with the other generals, arguing over what seems to be battle plans- the size of the army is clearly marked out, as is their positions. This is important, so she counts the number of flags and scrutinizes the formation and tries to identify each of the commanders-
Morgana gasps as she's suddenly jerked out of the trance by a hand roughly shaking her shoulder. She turns, momentarily disoriented by the realness of the world as the magic breaks. Her vision focuses on the person in front of her.
What is Arthur doing here? She had given strict orders not to be disturbed. How had he even found her?
Her hands are trembling from the aftereffects, and she hurriedly clasps them behind her back in a semblance of a military stance as she gets up.
"Arthur, did no one ever teach you not to barge into rooms?"
Arthur's face is grim, and she wonders if something's happened, if there's been an attack. She's dizzy enough as is, and the recently stopped nosebleed threatens to start again. She wants Arthur to get out so she can finish this distasteful job quickly and rest.
"Merlin told me you were invading the minds of these generals," he says. That explains how he knew- there was no way that a magician as powerful as Merlin could not have sensed what she was doing. It is terribly dark magic, after all. Terribly dark, and terribly useful. Morgana wipes the sweat from her forehead.
"We need the information."
"You're defiling their humanity."
This is why Arthur wasn't supposed to know. All she wants right now is to stop this argument from happening.
"Arthur," she says, reaching out to tug at his shirt sleeve, "these generals know things that could hand us the victory. Now is not the time."
Arthur doesn't budge. "That doesn't excuse this travesty."
Morgana's knees threaten to buckle, but she keeps herself upright. Stupid magical backlash. "We've talked about this before, Arthur. I am doing what I must. Go back."
Arthur opens his mouth to argue again, but she suddenly starts coughing right as he begins. Instinctively, she covers her mouth with a hand. It's painful, and there seems to be something mixed in with the coughs. Arthur is hovering closer to her, looking unsure as to what to do.
The coughing abates, and Morgana slowly lowers her hand. Before she can wipe it on her shirttails, Arthur snatches her hand towards him. Crimson red dyes her palms. Blood.
Arthur looks horrified. Morgana takes her hand back and deliberately wipes it. This is a new side-effect, but it's not as painful as some she's seen.
"Go back," she repeats. "I'm nearly done, Arthur, and I'd appreciate being allowed to finish."
The blood seems to have silenced Arthur. He nods mutely.
Morgana turns back to the barely conscious general, not even bothering to check that Arthur has left.
There is work to do.
Arthur stumbles out of the tent, shaken. Merlin meets him as he staggers towards his own tent.
"What happened?" the warlock asks hurriedly. "I can still feel it…"
Arthur shakes his head wordlessly. Merlin half-drags him to sit down at the cot. He puts his head in his hands, trying to shake himself out of the numbness that's overtaken him.
"She won't stop," he whispers finally. "Morgana wouldn't stop."
Merlin frowns. "She has to," he says. "It's- it's wrong, Arthur. It's bad magic and no one should have the power to invade minds."
"Is it?" Arthur chuckles humorlessly. "Is there ever any magic that isn't bad?"
He can never say it, but some days he wonders if Uther was right in his single-minded conviction to ban magic. It complicates things, magic, going against the forces of nature and giving far too much power to one person. How can the rights of each person be protected when any moment some invisible force could destroy their homes, cause plagues, and even look into their minds?
Even the most well-intentioned magic has the potential to wreak havoc. He needs a way to control it.
"You know magic is just another force, Arthur."
He raises his head to look at the warlock. Merlin's looking at him in consternation.
"It's the people who use it that determine whether it's good or bad."
"You said yourself that what Morgana's doing is bad magic," Arthur retorts. Merlin swallows.
"Some magics can be twisted past its original intent," he says after a pause. "the spell she's using- did you know it was originally developed by a High Priestess to heal memory loss? Most sorcerers' magic, like mine- we can't use that. It's- it's spiritual, not just our regular manipulation of force."
Arthur frowns. "There are different types of magical power?"
"'Course there are," Merlin says, a little apprehensive. "Most magic is just force. I can create wind or move things by manipulating force, or create fire by controlling energy. Some elemental magic, too. Then sometimes you can find more complex spells like curses or wards- you weave the effects together to make other effects."
"It's just another type of force, then?" Arthur asks, still skeptical. Merlin nods enthusiastically.
"That's it," he says, "it's like you being able to punch, except we do it with our minds. You can punch someone in self-defense, or because you're bullying that person. The wielder determines whether the power is good or bad."
Arthur looks down at the ground.
"And Morgana?"
Merlin deflates. "Some magics deal with the arcane. The High Priestesses for one always have some power over life and death that's impossible to explain. Seers can see the future, which is traditionally of the fey. Dragonlords, like me…well, we're different too. Some magicians also have control over other beings, though that power belongs to the Sidhe more than us."
"So those are bad magic." Arthur's face is inscrutable.
"No! Sire, you know it's not like that." Merlin puts his face in his hands. "This is so hard to explain."
"What am I supposed to think, then?"
"Some magic we can't…we can't understand. I've heard that we all have auras, existing in overlapping dimensions, and some soothsayers look past to that to see our futures. They just exist. Like they fey are beyond our morality."
Arthur rubs his face wearily with a hand. "Then I should leave her be?"
Merlin opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it. Arthur watches as conflicting emotions pass through the warlock's face.
Merlin finally speaks. "I think…what Morgana's doing is wrong."
"But the magic isn't?"
"This isn't a question of the magic. Regardless of whether the spell is inherently good or bad, Morgana chose to use that power, Arthur."
He tenses. "You're saying it's Morgana who's..." Merlin shrugs.
"She never claimed to be any sort of good." The warlock visibly hesitates before speaking. "Arthur, you're letting your emotions get in the way of your thinking. Morgana-"
"I don't want to hear it." The words are clipped and terse. He has argued this point with Morgana before. Arthur knows now that Morgana bears all the dirty work so that he can remain untainted. She continues, broken as she is, with the same devotion to her kingdom and Albion that drives him. Dark magic or no, she has sacrificed far too much for him to allow himself to doubt her like this. Arthur can see Merlin bite back a retort.
"Yes, Sire."
There is a stilted silence. Arthur thinks back on Merlin's explanations. He has issues he needs to work out with magic, after all.
"In the battle," Arthur begins, "you said it'd take too much time to reach all the commanders with magic. How did that work?"
A little crease appears on Merlin's brow. "Magic doesn't make things happen with a wave of the hand," he says. "It's…it works like most things in life. I need to know exactly where the target of my spell is to make it happen. Either I see the target, or I can visualize the exact position."
Arthur's face must have shown his confusion, because Merlin hastens to add, "When you punch, you have to know where the person you're going to punch is if you want to get a hit. If I want to form a communications spell, I need to know where the person is."
"So when I tell you to reach a commander…"
"I have to cast a sweeping spell first to find the location, unless I know exactly where he- or she, actually- is. It's a little easier if you want me to talk to a magician; I can usually feel their magic signatures- don't ask, Arthur, you don't want to know- although it takes a little time to identify them."
Arthur's trying to digest this new information. Uther had never actually taught him about how magic worked; his father had been more concerned with what it looked like and how to catch the users. He himself had always assumed things just…happened when a magic user muttered specific words. He turns his attention back to Merlin, who seems eager to explain the mysteries of magic to him.
"People like Morgana, it's even easier for me to find and cast the spell with. I could probably do it within seconds. She's got a strong, unusual magic signature, I've worked with her enough times to know her presence, and she always carries around a token that I've put a spell on previously. Anybody who has any of those conditions, it'd be easy for me to find."
Arthur frowns. "She…carries around a token? When did you give her a token?"
Merlin immediately raises his hands in a placating gesture, which Arthur thinks is ridiculous and completely unnecessary. "I never gave her a token."
"Then what are you talking about?"
"The necklace you gave her- for her birthday, was it? The one I put the transporting spell on along with the ring she gave you. Speaking of which, you lost the ring. Did you ever tell her that? I'm not sure she'd be very pleased that you've lost her present…"
Arthur remembers all too well how he lost his ring in the Maze of Endwyn. He cuts Merlin's blabbering short.
"So…the necklace."
"She never takes it off. The courier spell is still in place, although it doesn't work now that you don't have the ring, and it has my magic in it. So I can find her fast."
Arthur ponders this. Putting aside the pleased feeling that sweeps through him at hearing that Morgana still wears the necklace, he tries to find the reason this rings a bell.
"I can't talk to the commanders from a distance because I don't have magic. You can't talk to them fast enough because you don't know the location. But any token with your magic would make it easier to find them. Why didn't you just distribute a charmed token to the commanders before the battle?"
Merlin gapes, and then grins sheepishly. "Because, well, we didn't think about it. I didn't know it was important for you to be able to talk to the commanders."
Arthur feels like putting his face in his hands. "And were you not listening the half-dozen times I stressed the importance of communication, Merlin?"
"Probably not." Merlin grins. "But now I can figure out a spell to make you be able to talk to them whenever you want. Would rings do? I can get the magicians to spell one for each person you need to talk to."
"That will work." A small smile spreads across his face. "We might have a chance after all.
Princess Mithian arrives with surprisingly little fanfare a week later, her standard unembellished with only the emblem of Nemeth visible on it. Morgana has met her but once before, during the forging of the Albion Alliance, but it was deemed fitting that she receive the other princess into camp rather than another general. In truth, Morgana is not too eager to meet her; though she has heard nothing but good things about her from Keredic and Arthur, the fact that the princess was once betrothed to Arthur somehow makes her reluctant.
So she stands against the welcome August wind, Sir Gwaine besides her; Sir Blythe and Sir Goron, both knights of her homeland, accompany them as well. It is a small reception, hardly befitting Princess Mithian's rank, but this is war and there are far too many monarchs here for a princess to be taken much note of. The gods know she herself isn't respected as anything more than a general.
"So, Princess Morgana, why are you stuck out here instead of that brother of hers?"
Gwaine asks, watching the procession of Mithian and her troops to camp. Morgana shrugs.
"King Rodor took Prince Keredic with him on a scouting trip early yesterday. We weren't expecting Mithian so early."
The knight looks at her, grinning impishly. "Why so terse, my lady? Is it the new competition for Arthur's heart that's gotten you worried?" The Cornish knights shift uneasily behind Morgana.
She barely spares him a glance, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the approaching soldiers. "Hardly. I wasn't aware I was competing for Arthur in the first place."
He snorts. "Of course you weren't. Just like Arthur isn't pining for you every second he can spare from the war."
Morgana flashes him a brilliant smile. "Well, he must not be pining for me very much if he's doing that in his spare time."
"You'd be surprised, my lady."
Morgana makes a disbelieving noise, but does not bother to retort. Sir Gwaine already seems to have an unhealthy interest in her relationship with Arthur, or lack thereof. She isn't going to fan the flames. In any case, Arthur hasn't even talked to her in the last week, since he found her using magic on the generals. He is not overly cool with her, nor does he go out of his way to avoid her. Still, she can't help feeling worried that they may have regressed to their previous conflict. She suspects Merlin could have something to do with her not seeing Arthur; Arthur has been working on something with the sorcerer that's taken up all his time. She's reported her findings to the Council of Kings of course, and the past week had been spent wholly on devising a new strategy. The Saxons had seemed content to lick their own wounds in a temporary truce.
Mithian arrives at the gates before Gwaine finds something else to tease her about. Morgana bows stiffly, and the knights follow suit. Truth be told, she should be curtseying, but it looks rather ridiculous without an accompanying skirt and Morgana doesn't want to rub it into the soldiers' faces that she's a woman any more than she already is. Mithian dismounts.
The princess is admittedly lovely. Delicate features, flawless wintry skin, and a comfortable poise Morgana wishes she possessed. Mithian is a princess straight out of fairy tales, complete with the kind, loving heart and charm. The kind of princess that would love Arthur unconditionally, the kind of princess that would be the perfect High Queen.
Morgana hesitates before offering her greetings. Mithian looks more sallow than she remembers, but that could be because her face is devoid of the usual make-up rather than ill health. "We are honored to have you here, Princess Mithian. I hope your journey has not been difficult."
Mithian looks at the four, a pleasant smile on her lips. Her hair- darker than Morgana remembers it, but not yet her own midnight black-is pinned to the sides of her head and let down around her shoulders, and she tucks a strand back.
"I am grateful for your kindness in receiving me in person, Princess Morgana," she says softly. Morgana pulls her lips into a hopefully friendly smile.
"I apologize that we are so few in greeting you. An urgent issue has had the Council of Kings suddenly in conference-"
Mithian shakes her head, cutting short Morgana's rather awkward explanations gently. "I am honored by your receiving me. I wouldn't presume to burden myself further."
Morgana loosens a fraction, unwillingly put at ease by Mithian's words. Before she can lay on more courtesies, Mithian speaks.
"These men are Nemeth's covert archery legion, the pride of our military. They have been instrumental in many strategic maneuvers, and I hope they will be of service."
Morgana notices the well-worn crossbow visible on Mithian's horse.
"Will you be leading them, my lady?"
"Yes," the other princess nods, "In times like these, even a princess should do her part."
Doing her part indeed, Morgana thinks acidly. It must be nice to have a choice. But she nods and smiles.
"You must be tired, Princess Mithian. I will show you to your lodgings. This is Sir Gwaine of Camelot, Sir Blythe, and Sir Goron, both of Cornwall. They will introduce your men to the camp."
The men bow, and Gwaine steps up.
"They'll be in safe hands."
Mithian nods, and Gwaine grins. Throwing the two women a salute, he starts leading Mithians' bowmen to the barracks. Morgana glimpses a few women among them. Gwaine would take them to the women's lodgings. And probably flirt with them on the way. She turns her attention back to Mithian.
"I'm afraid the accommodations are quite bare," she tells her, "This camp was set up to be temporary, so we all sleep in military tents."
Mithian smiles. "That won't be a problem. We did camp on our way here."
Morgana smiles back. "I'm glad. Thank you for your understanding."
It's all very artificial, she thinks as she smoothly leads them both past the rows and rows of barracks and generals' tents. Sincerity has never been a trait of hers, and she isn't faring too well with this perfectly good princess. Mithian has an innocence, a glow like Arthur's- a heart that loves easily and is loved in return.
"This is the main council tent," Morgana points out as they pass. "Most of the kings are in council now with High King Arthur. Your father and brother are away on reconnaissance- they would have greeted you if they had not expected you to arrive later."
"Of course," Mithian agrees, "I was eager to join the main force, and I'm afraid I may have driven my men a little hard."
"We are very glad for your assistance," Morgana says. "The first frontal battle has ended in a stalemate, and with the Saxon camps established it seems we will fight it out here." She fiddles with her sword. "The months of fighting Saxon raids on various citadels have not helped. The war has been brutal, Princess Mithian."
Mithian carries the conversation effortlessly as they walk past other nobles' tents. It's pleasant in a way not being the one to force out conversation, but Morgana is envious of how easy and unaffected the other princess does so.
They arrive at Mithian's tent, and Morgana waves a hand at her tent standing a little ways away.
"If you need anything, please tell me. My tent is right beside yours, and I don't have any company."
Merlin chooses that moment to pop out of her tent. Morgana bites her lips as Mithian stifles her giggles.
"At least, most nights I don't. Merlin? What are you doing here?"
Merlin blinks owlishly at the sight of the two of them.
"Princess Mithian? You're here?" he blurts. When Morgana looks at him disapprovingly, he wilts a little.
"Arthur wants you in the Council of Kings now," the sorcerer tells her.
"Both of us?" she asks, wondering if Rodor and Keredic has returned. "Is it important? Princess Mithian has just arrived, and she should have time to prepare."
Merlin shakes his head. "I've been told to get everybody not already in the council tent. It's not going too well." He nods at Mithian. "I'm sure he'd want you there too.
"I'd be happy to," the princess says. "You need not worry, Princess Morgana."
Morgana nods. "Then we should be off."
Merlin shoos them to the direction of the tent and rushes off to find other truant council members.
"And it worked so well the first time, didn't it, Bayard?"
Morgause's voice is cuttingly sarcastic even heard through the gap in the opening of the tent. Standing outside with Mithian, Morgana wonders what has her sister in such a mood.
"A frontal assault is the only honorable way to fight, especially since we have both established camps," Bayard blusters. Morgana can almost see Morgause's lips curl in disdain.
"We've clearly seen that our troops are incapable of working together in such a way. The mark of an idiot is attempting the same failing method over and over again expecting different results."
"It isn't as if you weren't the reason the whole formation broke down, you yellow-haired wench-"
"That's my wife you're talking about, Bayard," Cenred's voice growls, cutting him off. "Get it into your thick skull that Morgause is right; we need a different plan."
"Enough," Arthur's voice commands, "We are allies here." A silence follows.
Now that the shouting has subsided, Morgana nods to Mithian and pushes the tent flap open, striding in.
The various monarchs are sitting around a square table, Arthur at the head. Bayard is already red with anger, while Cenred is bristling and Morgause seething. She sees Keredic sitting with his father looking distinctly uncomfortable; they must have returned, after all.
She looks back to Arthur, her head raised high. He meets her eyes almost wearily, giving her an almost imperceivable nod.
"High King Arthur," she begins, "your majesties, may I introduce Princess Mithian, who has brought specialized reinforcements from Nemeth." She turns to Mithian, and the princess steps forward.
"Your majesties." She bows gracefully. "I and the legion of master bowsmen of Nemeth hope we will be of service to you and Albion."
"Welcome, Princess Mithian. We are grateful for your presence," Arthur says. He smiles, and Morgana can't help but feel a stab of jealousy at the way it is aimed solely at the other princess. The thought jumps unbidden into her mind: the two had been engaged. What if Arthur still harbored feelings for Mithian? The princess is beautiful with her pleasantly curving lips and her dark waterfall of hair, and Keredic had hinted that the betrothal had broken because of the hint of magic in their family rather than a mutual agreement. She shakes away the thought- and the accompanying dismay- as Arthur bids them sit.
She leads Mithian near the foot of the long table. They both sit down, Morgana flinching a little as a sharp pain runs up her thigh at the movement, and the conversation resumes.
Arthur asks, "How many men do you possess in your legion, Princess Mithian?"
"All told, around two hundred, my lord." Mithian tactfully pretends not to notice the faces falling at that. "The archers under my command are highly skilled marksmen, renowned for not only their aim but their resilliance and maneuverability. They are adept at camoflauge and support work." She glances around. "They have been instrumental to many battles, as some nations have seen firsthand."
Odin grunts, and Morgana recalls the brief war Nemeth had had with Meredor. The final skirmish had been unusual in that a division of archers had effectively won the battle for the army by luring the left flank into a trap and decimating the victims. Morgana's gaze flicks to Mithian as she realizes that the princess may have been the commander in charge of the archers in that battle.
Not a conventional lady then, as Morgana had guessed earlier. A veteran in war, perhaps.
Even more fitting for Arthur's bride.
Her thoughts are cut short by Bedwyr speaking.
"What good are a couple hundred bowmen? Led by a woman, as well.
Mithian bristles, and Morgana touches her arm to warn her against lashing out. Not that the princess looks like she has enough spite to do that. But Arthur looks so weary today; he looks brittle, like he will not be able to bear one more burden. No need to give him further cause to worry with a feud between Mithian and Bedwyr. Not when Morgana already has one ongoing.
"I'm sure that in these times, any aid is grateful," Morgana comments in the tension, smiling too sweetly at the prince. "Especially when they are such highly skilled forces led by a capable, experienced commander."
Bedwyr grunts, but Morgana can see Queen Annis shoot him a warning look to keep him from arguing further. Arthur relaxes a fraction.
Keredic's smiling enthusiastically in her general direction. If she is truthful with herself, it's aimed mostly at his sister. But it's nice to have someone who's fully glad to see her. Tentatively, she smiles back.
The prince positively lights up at that, so much that she can practically feel the welcome radiating off him. Morgana blushes a little, but she can't deny feeling a little…pleased.
It'd be so easy to be loved by Keredic. He'd love her no matter what she did, understand why she'd force herself to do repulsive things. It'd be simple, loving him, devoid of tangles and problems.
Morgana snaps out of the reverie. None of that. She feels ashamed of herself, allowing her mind to wander in such an important meeting in such an important war.
Nothing much has been discussed though. More bickering, if anything. Her sister seems to be on edge, as does Cenred. Perhaps there has been unfavorable news from Escetia. Caerleon has been arguing with Alined and Godwyn over the advantages of cutting off supply routes. Morgana grimaces, but remains silent; it is best not to take part when the men are so intent on squabbling. Truth be told, she doesn't see a point in whether or not taking that particular action will yield benefits; not only is it possible but difficult to find the routes, shielded as they'd be by magic, it'd require coordination they weren't capable of at the moment. There was no use in arguing whether they should do it if they couldn't do it anyways.
She glances sidelong at Mithian. The princess seems to be listening intently to the debate, brown eyes thoughtful. Morgana is wondering what she is thinking when suddenly the princess speaks out.
"I believe that our archers' legion is capable of taking the supplies without fear of retaliation."
All eyes turn to Mithian as she continues. "They have been trained specifically for such purposes. If the route is identified, we can set a deadly ambush easily."
Morgana's eyes immediately flick to Bedwyr, Odin, and Bayard, who are most likely to object to this. She knows this is a course of action that will please Cenred and Morgause, Alined, and Godwyn; it is a prudent strategic move that would win Albion a real advantage in this deadlock. Bedwyr has a faintly contemptuous expression on his face, while Odin seems diffident enough. Bayard is unsurprisingly the first to speak out.
"It would not be honorable, Princess Mithian," he booms. "After all, we are fighting a war; we are not mercenaries."
Queen Annis immediately snaps back, "This is war, Bayard. A war we need to win at any costs."
"Mother," Bedwyr hisses. He raises his voice. "Not only is it a bad idea by principle, what good would it do us? We're facing them in full frontal battles. There's no point to diversionary tactics. We have to fight it out- the battlefield is here."
The battlefield is here. Morgana's eyes meet her sister's. Inspiration.
Morgause speaks first. "It doesn't have to be."
"What?"Bedwyr is caught off guard.
"The battlefield doesn't have to be here. We lead them out to terrain where we are favorable, and have the battle on our terms."
Godwyn tilts his head. "And how would we lure them out without tipping them off?"
Morgana's lips slowly curve up as she nods to Mithian. "We take out the supply chain in full view of the army." She looks at Arthur directly. "If your majesty allows, Cornwall would be happy to act as bait."
"That's all very well and good," Cador says, frowning. "But where do we lead them to?"
Morgana hesitates. Truth be told, she knows little about the geography of the Plains of Peredor- it is after all part of Camelot, and she has not been able to travel much around even during her ambassador days. She looks at Morgause, who frowns a little. Of course Morgause would know even less about the real geography of Camelot lands than her. Morgana bites her lips, preparing to bluff her way out of the question. Before she can begin, Arthur speaks.
"The Plains of Peredor are surrounded by the Black Mountains, which border Camelot's south. Its rocky terrain possesses many crevaces and caves." He looks at Mithian. "What conditions do you require for an ambush?"
The princess looks thoughtful. "Higher ground, Sire. A narrow pass to bottleneck the troops is necessary. We would prefer a wooded area for more coverage. How big of a force are you planning to take down?"
Arthur speaks calmly, determinedly. "From a fifth to a third of the Saxons' forces."
Instant chaos. Morgana feels as if she's been punched, her head ringing.
There are fifteen thousand men in the Saxon Camp facing them. A fifth meant at least three thousand men- Arthur wants her to lure three to five thousand men into an ambush? Is he trying to get the Cornwall forces wiped out? And Mithian has two hundred archers. Skilled as they may be, there is no way they can wipe out five thousand men before the bait gets slaughtered.
"How in blazes are you even going to make sure that the whole force isn't going to chase after the bait?" Cenred shouts in the clamor. "What sort of daft idea is this?"
"High King Arthur, you can't possibly thinking to go ahead with this-"
"And the Saxons are going to take this lying down, are they?"
"They'd all get slaughtered when the entire Saxon Camp chases after them-"
"They won't." Arthur's voice cuts through the shouting. Everyone falls silent. He looks around the quietened council, eyes fierce sapphires in the dim light. There's suddenly something in his countenance that commands respect, obedience- somethingthat draws all of them to him. Arthur speaks again to absolute attention.
"They won't, because we'll be attacking the Saxon Camp at the same time."
This time, the council reacts with shocked silence. Morgana looks at the others; Morgause looks reluctantly impressed, Odin radiating grudging consideration, Rodor approving. Most are gaping at the new idea. Arthur seems to take no notice, completely focused as he outlines his plan. He calls for a map of the Black Mountains.
"When the supply chain is taken as they approach camp, our troops will take the loot as we retreat. The Saxons will have no choice but to send a sizeable force after us to retrieve them." Arthur nods as a page brings in a leather map. He spreads it out on the map already on the table where the Black Mountains are marked. "Our raiding party will take the loot into the Black Mountains, to a strait that runs through around here." He points to the map where a deep crevice has been drawn, tracing the path. "There is a narrow pass here that loops back to the Plains. In the middle, there is a region so narrow only four men or one wagon can pass through at a time. It was a good spot for traps when hunting." He looks at Princess Mithian again. "There are many ledges on either side of the pass on the stone faces. The cliffs rise to more than fifty meters in all. There is some shrubbery on the ledges to provide minimal cover, but you should be undetected if they don't look too closely up."
Mithian nods. "That should be sufficient. How long does the narrow turn go for?"
"It would take more than two and a half hours for an army of four thousand to pass through. As soon as enough of the Saxon forces have left the camp to pursue the raiders, we will attack the main camp. It should be thrown into disarray as the soldiers are caught by surprise while beginning to move out. We surround the camp and fight our way in."
Arthur's gaze sweeps through the assembled monarchs. Not one dares make a sound. "This is the battle that will determine whether we win the war. We have let the Saxons drag the war on long enough. We cannot afford more deadlocks like our first battle; this will be a decisive triumph or our last stand. Do you understand?"
The gravity holds. It is as if all the monarchs are mesmerized by his words. And then:
"Yes, Sire. We will fight to the last man."
Rodor breaks the silence first. Morgana realizes with a jolt that it's the first time a king has directly addressed Arthur according to his elevated rank.
"My liege, we will do our part in this battle," Bayard intones. Morgana can feel the smallest of smiles growing on her face- this is a public acknowledgement of Arthur's right to be High King. And it pleases her, more than it should.
The rest of the council pledge their support once more to Arthur. He is majestic, Morgana thinks. This is his moment just as when he leads his troops in the battlefield. She can't help feeling pround for his sake.
When Arthur speaks again, everyone falls into respectful silence.
"We have seen firsthand that we cannot win without communication. Much like our previous strategy, this battle will require unified coordination and delicate timing." The council fidgets a little in shame; they have not forgotten what had become of that strategy.
"It also requires adapting to changing situations that signals cannot easily convey."
Arthur pauses, then speaks louder. "Merlin!"
The sorcerer swings the tent flap open and comes in holding a large leather pouch. He stops at Arthur's side. "You called, Sire?"
"The rings," Arthur says. Merlin opens the pouch and upturns it, letting a stream of shining golden rings clattering onto the wooden table. The rings are magic, Morgana observes as Alined leans closer interestedly. So this is what they've been working on all week.
Arthur picks one of the rings up. "These rings will provide our communication," he says. "The magic on them allows each commander to speak to commanders both as a whole and individually." He nods to Merlin. The sorcerer speaks eagerly.
"They've been enchanted with two-way communication spells that connect all of these rings together. We have enough for the Council of Kings and the generals directly under them. You turn the ring to the left like this when it's on your finger-" he places his thumb and forefinger on two grooves set in the top and the bottom of the ring-"to have it reach everybody. And if you want to talk to someone in particular, you just tap the ring with your forefinger once and breathe the person's name into it. You have to be clear about it, though." He smiles sheepishly. "We wouldn have given them to you sooner, but it took a while to find a good enough spell. And it took a while to gather enough rings in the first place."
"Each one has a name engraved in it, to identify the owner," Merlin explains. "Bebiede Geðo hit his agendum handum!" Small piles of rings separate and slide to each monarch.
Morgana examines the rings in front of her. Her name glints out at her from the uppermost ring, so she picks it up and slips it on. It fits like it was made for her hand. Morgana suddenly looks up at Arthur.
At first, the only expression on his face is the regal, thoughtful one he so often bears during these council meetings. But when he realizes she's looking at him, it suddenly cracks- and there's that obnoxious cocky grin slowly breaking through. It's aimed at her only, she is certain of this. He'd never break from his persona of High King like this to anyone else. I one-upped you this time, it seems to say.
Morgana raises an eyebrow and holds her hand up to deliberately examine it in the light. Not bad. She meets his eyes again, lifts her hand up to display the ring, and flexes her fingers playfully. He snorts, and she can't stifle the real grin that spreads across her face this time.
Morgana pockets the small handful of rings made for Cornwall's other high-ranking generals. It is a useful invention, this work of Merlin's, and she is in no way ignorant of how much this could improve their coordination and power. Arthur's idea has impressed her, though she'd never admit it.
There's a small amount of talk as the other rulers examine their own rings. Morgause seems rather pleased, while Odin squints at the shining pile like it's a trap that will snap at him. But the general mood is one of approval.
Merlin bows and leaves the tent as the rest of the council settle down. Arthur's face settles back into seriousness.
"Using the rings, we will coordinate our attack so that we strike the moment enough of the Saxon army has left for the camp to be vunerable. The confusion should allow us to easily overtake them. A deployment blocks off the mountain pass so that no more of the Saxons can pursue, while half of our forces attack from the rear. The rest of our forces attack as if in a frontal battle, spreading to surround them once the main areas have been torched."
"You're going to wipe them out completely," Cador breathes in awe. "It's brilliant."
Arthur nods at the young prince. "We cannot afford to be pinned down in this plain any longer. They are expanding far too fast for us to tarry." He turns to Cenred and Morgause. "The force that attacks from the rear has to do so in complete stealth; if they are found out in transit they will be massacred. The Escetian army is known for their speed and stealth. Escetia will lead the forces that strike from the other side of camp. Upon my signal, and only upon my signal, you will begin the assault. Form a kill-box; surround them as you move inwards." Arthur is not asking, Morgana notes. He is ordering, and Morgause and Cenred are acceptingit. Her proud sister and her husband, acquiescing to Arthur's commands.
"Once the Escetian army attacks, it will need a fierce, heavily armed back-up. King Bayard, your forces are as solid as the best of the Romans. You will move your armies into camp as soon as the Escetian army makes their surprise attack, providing the bulk of the force."
Bayard nods. "You won't find a better force for it anywhere."
Arthur turns to Olaf and Alined. "I believe that for this battle Clarence and Cantia is needed to ensure that our position is fully surrounding the Saxon Camps. We cannot afford any breaks in our formation. King Alined, I would like for Clarence to cover the right wing of Bayard's army, moving out to complete the circle at my signal. The Cantian troops would likewise move out the left wing. Your role is crucial in the second stage of battle, maintaining the formation."
Morgana can imagine Arthur's thoughts behind the orders. Bayard wishes for glory, and would take pride in being chosen as the main force for the attack from the rear. Olaf and Alined are far more cautious; they would appreciate their armies being given the less risky positions. At the same time, Arthur speaks truth: to prevent the same outcome of the last battle, Albion needs the formation to be supported fully. Havin two troops dedicated to doing so would further that end greatly.
"Camelot will be part of the frontal charge," Arthur continues. "I would like Logres and Caerleon to join me in doing so. King Godwyn, your forces will take left flank. You must make sure that your troops fully meet King Alined's forces in building the formation. King Caerleon, Queen Annis, Prince Bedwyr, you will spread the right wing after the initial assault. Your forces will be essential both in the frontal charge and in the formation afterwards." He pauses. "We cannot afford any gaps. You must ensure your forces are directly adjacent to King Olaf's."
The monarchs nod. Bedwyr looks determined; no doubt he is pleased he at least gets to take part in a frontal battle. Morgana thinks Arthur has grown more political in the space of a week: he has placed Caerleon and Godwyn, older allies of Camelot, to fight with him in front, while at the same time ensuring that the troops of those will fight side by side are friendly with each other. He put Godwyn next to Alined rather than Annis, prudent considering the mutual animosity between the king and the queen. Morgana sometimes wonders if Annis and Alined has some history with each other- perhaps a broken betrothal or a grudge? It could also be Annis couldn't stand Alined's two-faced lies.
In any case, this method of giving each nation's troops their own tasks seem to be much more efficient than the previous method of lumping them into larger forces. Morgana is frankly impressed at how much thought Arthur has given to this seemingly improvised plan.
Arthur orders Rodor and the Nemeth troops not under Mithian to strike deep into the Saxon Camp once the melee starts in order to torch the main buildings. Rodor acquises enthusiastically. How Keredic turned out to be such a gentle, non-militant man under Rodor, Morgana will never understand.
Arthur seems to hesitate for the first time as he calls Odin. Morgana bites her lips, praying that the king will not be too recalcitrant.
"King Odin," Arthur begins, "It is imperative that no more than one third of the Saxon forces leave in pursuit of the bait. I would like Meredor to lay in ambush at the base of the mountain pass, and attack at my signal to eliminate those that exceed that number. Without you, the ambush in the mountain pass could well be overwhelmed."
Odin grunts, muttering something like 'arrogant pup', but he seems to be accepting the order. Morgana can see the tension leaving Arthur's hands as he turns to Mithian.
"You are the crux of this battle," Arthur tells the princess. "Will the conditions allow for you to handle up to five thousand men? None of them must be allowed to reach the end of the mountain pass."
Princess Mithian raises her chin. "We will prove our worth, High King Arthur. Not one of the five thousand men will leave the valley alive."
Arthur smiles, but it soon gives way to concern. "The Saxon forces may have caught up to the bait force as they enter the pass."
Mithian's answering smile is steely. "We are expert marksmen, my lord. And if the mountain pass is as you say, it should leave some space between our forces and theirs."
Arthur nods. "We are truly grateful for your timely arrival." He sighs imperceptively.
"The raiding party- the bait- requires perfect timing in execution. Its attack must be convincing enough to throw the Saxon camp into confusion and elicit a response. It must purposefully lag behind until over one-fifth the force has left the camp in pursuit, while maintaining enough distance to get through the pass safely. It must bear the attack until my express orders. One hasty move, and the entire strategy will fall apart." Morgana is startled when Arthur suddenly looks directly at her. "You will have to seize the supplies and keep them with you as you move through the Black Mountains, to ensure the Saxons pursue. You must keep them from discovering the ambushes in the rear of the camp, the base of the mountain, and in the pass until they have passed through." She swallows.
"Morgana." The deliberate dropping of her title is not lost on her- and, seemingly, neither is it lost on the rest of the council. "I know of no one better for the role."
"I…my lord-"
That look again. Morgana's heart skips a beat, but she cannot help staring back. Before she can say anything, though, a voice cuts in.
"I would like to assist in the raiding party with some of my men."
Morgana's gaze snaps to Keredic, who looks pale yet determined. Her mouth opens in disbelief.
Keredic? Why would Keredic wish to be bait? He is most comfortable behind the lines; he takes no pleasure in battle. Why would he volunteer to the arguably most dangerous position in this strategy?
Keredic forges on. "I would like to aid Princess Morgana in the role. I would like to join her in the pivotal position."
Anger rushes through her veins in waves. How dare he? How dare Keredic question her competence? That is all Keredic's request amounts to, in the end. He thinks her unfit for the role and that he as the big strong knight has to protect her. As if she needed the protection.
Morgana takes a deep breath to calm herself. That's not what Keredic's intending, she tells herself. He only wants to accompany her so she wouldn't be alone. The role is intimidating, even to her. Keredic has realized that, and he's braving his own fears so he can be with her.
It's almost sweet, in a way. It would be, if it wasn't so condescending.
She looks at Arthur pleadingly. He seems frozen, jaw clenched. Morgana cannot tell what he is thinking. She's about to speak out against Keredic's request and hang the consequences when Rodor suddenly laughs.
"A fine idea," he booms. "My boy's turned into a man. See a real glimpse of the kraken, eh?" The king slaps Keredic on the back. "I'm proud of you, son."
The prince smiles at his father shakily, then turns expectantly to Arthur. Morgana watches in consternation as Arthur considers how to respond. She wants to put her face into her hands.
Rodor's just made it nigh on impossible for Arthur to refuse Keredic without it being seen as a rebuff. But Keredic's not meant for the battlefield, let alone delicate military operations like this. Sometimes she wonders if Rodor even sees his son properly. She resists the impulse to shake some sense into Keredic. He's risking his life- and for what? This misguided sense of chivalry.
Slowly, Arthur nods. "If you wish, Prince Keredic, so you may."
Keredic's eyes flick to Morgana, as if looking for her approval next. She forces up a half-smile, and he grins back. At the same time, she can feel Arthur's gaze on her as well. Ignoring it, she nods to Keredic as if she is grateful for his initiative.
Arthur clears his throat, and everyone's attention shifts back to him.
"Master Merlin and the sorcerer troops will attempt to locate the route of the supply chain. The attack will begin at my order. Until then, you are to train your troops in their duties, and inform your generals of their roles. Show them how to use their rings. I advise you to keep yours on at all times, as well." He holds up his own hand, showing the ring, then hesitates. Morgana sees his eyes flicking in her direction again. "It is imperative for Princess Mithian, Princess Morgana, and…Prince Keredic to be familiar with the terrain of the Black Mountains and the mountain pass in particular. I would like to introduce them to the area today. If they could meet in the training foregrounds."
Morgana nods, as does Mithian at her side. Arthur's mouth twitches up.
"Thank you for your attention."
It is a dismissal. The rulers stand up one by one and leave the tent, still caught up in the gravitas. As Morgana leans over to tell Mithian that she will show where they are to wait, she glances at Arthur.
More specifically, Arthur's seat. The High King has already left the tent.
"So it's you, me, my sister, and the High King off to check the trails. Isn't that a bit risky?"
Morgana and Keredic are walking out into the fields. Mithian has excused herself to change into more serviceable clothes after seeing the training grounds, and Arthur is off somewhere. Arthur was the one who has decided that the four scout out the trails in the first place, as their armies will fight their battles there, so they wait.
"You're forgetting Merlin. If there's any danger, he and I should have enough power to get us away." It is half-true; though teleportation requires too much energy to be practical, they would be able to move a short distance away from danger, enough to be safe.
"Hmm." Keredic seems unconvinced. Morgana looks at him.
"It's extremely unlikely that we will meet Saxon forces in the woods we'll be at. And even if we run into scouting groups, we should be more than a match for them." She pauses. "We have a little time while your sister prepares. If it's alright with you, I'd like to help with your swordsmanship. You will be accompanying me in the raiding party, after all."
Keredic's face falls almost comically. "Oh no. You're just like my father. Would it stop you if I said it's a terribly bad idea?"
Her mouth twitches up into an unwilling smile at his genuine dismay.
"You will have to hold your own in the battle, Keredic," Morgana teases, then turns serious. "What on earth possessed you to volunteer for the raiding party?"
Keredic is intelligent enough to know what a dangerous position the bait is. How could he even think of getting himself involved? With him having so publicly asked to be added to the role, there is no way Morgana can sneak him back to safety now.
Keredic fidgets, looking away from her to the distant mountains. He swallows, looking as if he is trying to decide whether or not to speak.
"You're…you're something else, you know that?" Keredic blurts out. "It's like…I've never known someone quite like you. I couldn't stand it, the thought of the High King sending you off on the most dangerous part alone. I know I won't be much of a help, but I wanted to- to make sure I was there for you. And-and I've never felt like this before. But I can't help thinking that- I want to be with you. I keep imagining what it'd be like to be with you after the war."
Morgana suddenly wishes she was anywhere but here. If she could turn back time and the conversation back to a safe topic, she'd do it in an instant. He's- he's just proposed marriage to her implicitly, hasn't he?
What is she supposed to say? Keredic has been a welcome friend, but only that-a friend. He is honorable, sweet, supportive. She could love him if she had to, with time.
But she doesn't have to.
She shouldn't give a direct answer. Not when they are days away from the most important battle of the war. Morgana cannot afford to alienate Keredic right now, no matter how gently she rejects him.
"That's after the war," Morgana eventually says. "I should think you'd want to take steps to survive, before you start thinking about it. Which leads us to fencing." She tilts her lips up in a cheeky smile, praying that Keredic will carry on with the lighter tone of conversation.
"Not this again," Keredic groans. He looks sidelong at her. "Well, I can't refuse an opportunity to be taught by such a lovely princess."
She raises an eyebrow, but accepts the compliment. Before she can decide how to start on the lessons, a voice whispers to her.
"He hasn't bothered you, has he?"
Morgana whirls. Arthur's suddenly there behind her, and there's a strange expression on his face, a mix of disapproval, uncertainty, and worry. He glares at Keredic as he speaks, loud enough for both of them to hear this time.
"I think it'd be better if I taught him, Princess Morgana." He smirks at her. "After all, he might be too distracted by your beauty to pay much attention."
It hits her then that he's heard everything Keredic said to her just now. Morgana flushes. Stupid, stupid Keredic. And Arthur, the prat. If only she had enough energy for teleportation right now. Arthur's looking at her now, scrutinizing her carefully guarded expression as he asks again.
"Well?"
Morgana begins to protest, but Keredic seems willing enough. The two men take their places facing each other as Morgana unwillingly stands aside.
Arthur grimaces a little at Keredic's stance. "We're going to try sparring," he says.
Keredic nods, and raising his sword, he strikes on the offensive first. Arthur dodges without even making an effort. As Keredic turns back to face him again, Arthur gets going on 'teaching' him.
"You've got gaps here-" a whack too fast for Keredic to block, "and here-" another blow to the back," and now you're leaving your left open-" a jab to the chest, "and you're going to get killed if you ever get into combat." Arthur raps him directly in the solar plexus, and Keredic lets out an 'oof!' as he tumbles to the ground.
Morgana opens her mouth in incredulity, but it takes a while for her to even find the words to say something.
"What do you think you are doing, Arthur?"
He doesn't even glance at her. "I'm trying to make sure he survives this war."
"You're mauling him is what you're doing. If you're going to teach him, don't bully him."
"It's better I do this than some Saxon who actually wants to kill him."
"Arthur!"
"If he's not up to training with me, he shouldn't be on the battlefield."
Morgana shakes her head in anger. "You prat." She pulls out her sword. "Why don't you demonstrate how good you are by facing up against a real opponent?"
It's the wrong thing to say. She knows she's most likely going to lose; she has been diminished by the quest at the Isle of the Blessed, after all. But she's so angry right now. And if she can find some way to distract him, she might have a chance. For the first time, Arthur looks hesitant.
"Your leg, Morgana. I'm not going to fight an invalid woman."
Anger flares up. "Is it the fact that I'm a woman, or that I have an injury? We're expected to fight past our wounds," she says mockingly. It seems to rile Arthur up. Good.
"Prince Keredic won't learn much from seeing me beat you up," he snaps. "So why not save ourselves the bother?"
"It's really- Morgana, I'll be alright," Keredic calls, standing back up. He's winded, and his voice is a little funny. They both ignore him.
Morgana doesn't bother retorting. She only swings her sword once before striking out in a wide swipe. Arthur jumps back, not having expected such an aggressive move. She follows through, being careful to shift her weight on the good leg. Her strategy of using agility to overcome strength has become less effective since she was wounded in the quest, and with her leg as it is right now, her speed is laughable. Her stamina is lowered, as well, and even when she was at full strength she could never contend with Arthur in that.
Not agility, then. Not strength. How can she do this?
They circle warily, but Arthur doesn't attack. It's strange, because she's been lost in thought all this time and he should have noticed. Should have taken advantage. And it's then she realizes that Arthur won't be on the offensive unless he has to, because he doesn't want to hurt her. And that just makes her angrier.
She lets out a breath, focusing on Arthur. That he would curb his blows to stop himself from hurting her is sweet in a way, but more importantly it gives her something to exploit.
Morgana lunges towards Arthur at the exact moment that he is facing the sun directly as he circles. He should be a little blinded by the sudden light; Morgana uses the gap to slip behind him and let loose a flurry of blows. A knock at his shoulder with the hilt of her sword to off his balance, followed by a vicious jab with her elbow to help him fall, and then an extension of her sword to lay it at his neck. It works out as she hopes, mostly because Arthur is taking pains to prevent himself from hurting her and it's interfering with his movement, but a sudden wave of pain runs up her leg.
She falters, but doesn't let go of the sword. Arthur, kneeling and about to yield, seems to notice; before she can do anything he whirls and knocks her hand away from him. Morgana retaliates by turning to locking her sword with his, twisting deftly to let it fly out of his hand. Arthur kicks at the back of her knees, making her hiss in pain; As she falls, she trips him down with her.
By the time she gets to her feet, he's regained his sword. He straightens up, the height difference all too clear between them.
"Give up now, Morgana," he tells her a little wearily.
"I'm not the one who was about to yield," she retorts, swinging her sword again. She doesn't hesitate before beginning the bout again.
They cross swords once, twice, three times. Try as she might, Morgana can't find a gap in Arthur's defenses. From Arthur's frustrated look, it seems he can't find any in hers he'll risk exploiting, either. The blows grow in ferocity as they grapple for the upper hand.
Morgana lets out a breath as she parries a particularly swift overhead strike; if there aren't any gaps, she'll just have to make one. Gritting her teeth, she puts weight on her bad leg and ducks his attack; he's within range now, and she strikes at his torso. He's put off-balance as he whirls to block her sword, and she slips her sword away to fully take advantage. She swings at his neck, then raps his hand with the pommel of her sword as he tries to block again. He drops his sword, but before Morgana can point her own sword at him, he falls back and picks it up, swinging it up to her neck at the same instant that she places it at his jugular. They stare at each other, panting.
She knows she's a sweaty mess right now, with hair falling out of her braid. But Arthur's eyes are dark as he looks at her, and suddenly she can't meet his gaze anymore. In unarranged unison, they slowly lower their blades. A silence fills the air.
Arthur takes two steps towards her, and Morgana instinctively takes a step away from him. Her eyes are downcast, trying to avoid his heated gaze. The air is charged, and Morgana takes another step back as he walks towards her. He's far too close already, and she's just so tempted. This is what's missing between her and Keredic, Morgana distantly realizes. This is the reason she will only ever think of the prince as a friend, sweet as he is.
"Look up," Arthur whispers in her ear. Morgana glances up, swallowing as he slowly backs her up against a pole. Her arms are slack, her sword hanging loosely in one hand.
"Arthur…" she warns, stumbling back. She makes a little sound as her back meets the wood. Arthur's looming over her, and her heart beats just a little faster as she meets his eyes. They smolder, and she thinks maybe he can see right into her soul. She wets her lips, and she can feel his gaze intensifying. Before she can slip away, his hands rest on either side of her on the pole, effectively pinning her to her spot without even touching her. And right now, there's no Keredic or anyone watching; there's just him and her and the barely ten inches of air between them.
She gives in to the temptation- goes on her tiptoes and closes the distance between them. She can't help herself. Arthur's eyes widen as she presses her lips to his. His are wind-chapped, but there's a cool sweetness to them anyways; she gives an involuntary shiver as he replies enthusiastically. Her thoughts are swirling and she really shouldn't be doing this out here because Father is going to kill her or at least throw her in the dungeons if they weren't in a war and oh god we're in a war what am I doing this is the High King we're outside and then thoughts pretty much go out the window as she gasps a little and his lips press harder against hers.
His hands reach up to cradle her jaw- she leans into his touch instinctively and covers his hand with her own. Her other hand finds itself fisting in his hair as he pulls her flush against him. The kiss is hungry, and the warm insistent pressure only increases as they deepen it.
When they finally break apart, they breathe in gulps of air, staring at each other. Morgana takes a tiny step back until she's blocked by the pole, and her eyes slide shut as Arthur bends down to press his lips against hers again, the aching want palpable.
Someone clears his throat from a little ways off. Arthur doesn't give any sign of having heard, but as the coughs get more attention-seeking, Morgana opens her eyes and casts her gaze around.
Keredic looks half-horrified, half-angry as he catches her eye. How long has he been standing there?
Oh. Fencing lessons. That was why they were here in the first place.
Sensing her distraction, Arthur frowns a little and breaks away. He turns to see what she is looking at.
The prince opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly at a loss for words to say. Morgana blushes as she straightens her clothes; this is shameful behavior for a princess. If rumors came out, she wouldn't be able to hold her head up in public.
"Keredic, I… you have to understand..." If there was a diplomatic way to beg him not to tell anybody, she'd say it in an instant. He may be well-disposed towards her, but this?
"I don't see what the problem is," Arthur says. "Is there something you disapprove of, Prince Keredic?"
He glowers. "What am I supposed to take this as?"
Arthur, the fool, seems even a little smug. "As none of your business."
"Keredic, it's not-" She's ignored by both men.
"And do you usually take advantage of princesses like this?" Keredic bites out. Arthur's jaw clenches.
"Morgana doesn't let anyone take advantage of her," he retorts. "Do not insult her ability."
"It certainly didn't seem like it."
Morgana turns pink with embarrassment. Arthur's still a half-step from her, and she lays a hand on his chest.
"Stop. Arthur, there is no point to this."
Arthur smirks, taking her other hand. Morgana can't find the words to protest.
"Well, I certainly see a point," he says.
"See a point to what?"
Mithian appears, dressed in breeches and tunic. Morgana quickly steps away from Arthur as Keredic loosens a fraction.
"Nothing," he half-grits to his sister. "Princess Morgana and High King Arthur were trying to teach me swordsmanship."
"Heavens help them," Mithian grins. "It's a hopeless cause. You might as well not bother," she says to them.
Arthur's stiffened a little. "Princess Mithian," he greets. Morgana glances between them.
"It seems we're all gathered," she says, "maybe we should head off now?"
The rest of the party nod, and Arthur leads them to the stables, where Merlin has been currying horses.
Morgana can't meet Keredic's eyes, but she can't look at Arthur without blushing either. She settles for riding by Mithian, and they converse in pretty nothings as they begin the trip.
Her lips still tingle from the kiss.
A/N: I'm so sorry about the late update! Rest assured, I haven't abandoned the story. I just ran into writer's block, and when I got past it the chapter just. wouldn't. work. I must have rewritten this at least three times. It's not completely satisfactory, but I hope you enjoy it.
And thank you so much to all the reviewers, favorites, readers. Your support keeps me coming back to the story.