Morgana adjusted her dress to show more cleavage, unused to the confinement and delicacy of the clothes of her former rank. Or, she supposed, her current one. She was still a princess, after all, even if she lived in a hovel and wasn't currently a queen. All in good time, she thought, smiling to herself as she smudged dirt on her cheek, but not in a way that would make her look any less attractive.
She thought the green of her dress brought out her eyes, and remembered Gwen saying how well she looked in green.
Gwen.
Who was queen of Camelot.
For now.
She remembered the painstaking way Gwen had done her hair, arranged her dresses, lit her candles, put her to bed, woken her up in the morning, and generally taken care of her as if she had been a life-sized doll…It had been so smothering after she returned from her year of freedom with Morgause. Morgana had become so used to wearing and doing whatever she pleased…and now she was choosing to put herself back into that box, where she was just an object to be fussed over…without agency, or desire…a helpless noblewoman. The thought made her want to gag…but it was of little consequence. Soon she would have Camelot, and she could resume doing whatever she pleased to whomever she pleased, without apology.
She only had to seem like a harmless, helpless noblewoman for a few weeks. She could do that, surely. Even though it was a role she'd never played in her life. Even before she'd known she had magic, she'd always been able to take care of herself and anyone else who needed taking care of, whether with a sword, a bandage, or a harsh word.
But she'd heard that in Nemeth strong women were not thought highly of, so she'd decided to go with playing a helpless noblewoman, alone and afraid.
She had considered coming to Nemeth as herself, but Merlin had ruined that, as he ruined everything. They'd never believe her now that Merlin had somehow made himself a national hero in their backwards little kingdom.
Merlin.
Merlin!
Who had somehow wormed his way into a position in Camelot as a court wizard, she heard, even though magic was still illegal. Who had been a thorn in her side for years, destroying every whisper of a plan she had ever had.
Who had poisoned her.
Who killed her sister.
Who should be on her side.
How many times had he helped Uther? Why would he help Uther? She had loved Uther as a father, even before she had known that was what he truly was, and yet her resolve had not wavered.
What was Merlin's excuse?
Was he weak, or a coward, or what? Couldn't he see the glorious future that could stretch out before them, unfurling like the dawn? A world where magic was accepted—no, revered—and everyone without it could taste the fear they had made her taste—like bile, or blood, a metallic and hateful knot that stuck in the throat and could never be fully swallowed.
The world was theirs for the taking, and all he had decided to do with his power was prevent her from taking what should be hers.
Theirs.
She had to accept the fact that when her kingdom rose from the ashes of Arthur's, she would need the support of men like Merlin. If Merlin survived her coup, he could have a place in her kingdom if he wanted it. A man of such power would be better as a friend than an enemy.
Even Arthur was not such a fool that he would turn the warlock away.
And she could learn much from him, it seemed. He walked in Camelot without fear. It was a trick she should like to learn.
If she could persuade Merlin to join her, she would have already won. But how could she convince him to turn away from Arthur when she never could understand why he chose to side with Arthur in the first place? Why not side with her?
They were the same.
They were both ruthless, and deceitful, and brave, and decisive and absolutely unstoppable. And they shared magic.
Yes, Merlin was Arthur's friend, but what of that? What was a friend, compared to the world scrapping its knees in its eagerness to kneel at your feet?
When she thought of how many times she had spoken to Merlin of magic—and he had never once mentioned the fact that he was, in fact, a being of magic himself, and was at least as powerful as she was. It might have been a great comfort, to know that she was not alone. To know that he'd wrestled with the same dilemmas that she had wrestled with. He had said he understood what she had gone through.
However, he'd never mentioned wrestling with anything.
He'd certainly never mentioned the fact that he was almost certainly Emrys, the one destined to kill her.
Well, she could have a lot of fun before he killed her.
Or she could change her fate.
A patrol had stopped her when she was barely over the border. Apparently the boy-king much lauded in song ran his kingdom with some efficiency. Well it saved her the trouble of screaming and crying for hours to an empty forest, and for that she was grateful.
The knight who picked her up and placed her on his horse (after much maidenly protestation on her part, of course, about the need to sit so close to a man), was handsome in the clean-cut, boring way that all knights seemed to be. Morgana felt a bit reminiscent for Sir Gwaine, who at least looked the rogue even if he didn't always act it.
She realized she had become a bit less hysterical while she had been lost in her thoughts and proceeded to call out and sob, clinging to the knight in front of her with her fingernails, nearly losing it and laughing at the way he jumped in response.
Yes, men had always been this easy.
It always caught her by surprise, just a little, when they fell in line with all her plans. Agravaine had been pathetically grateful for the opportunity to commit treason just because she asked him to. Could they all be so boringly predictable?
Well, not all.
There was Merlin. He always seemed to thwart her, no matter how pretty her frock was. He, she supposed, deserved a bit more respect than she gave the rest of them. And he certainly wasn't overly concerned with honesty and playing fair.
Poisoners rarely were.
She imagined the boy-king wouldn't be so easy to fool, either, simply because he probably was too young yet to be attracted to her, and he had been born a peasant, like Merlin, and probably hadn't yet been infected with the foolishness of noblemen—to be obsessed with helping the helpless and whatever other swill they were feeding the knights these days.
Morgana had always found those ideas of chivalry and honour faintly ridiculous, especially since they seemed to be principally designed to keep strong women at home pining or watching faithfully in the stands where they couldn't cause any bother.
Not causing any bother was more Gwen's style. She could have it.
However, Morgana was forgetting herself. She should be trying to act just like Gwen. She was trying to be a helpless female, and although Gwen was hardly helpless, she always seemed so appreciative of everything. Her gratitude for any kindness was faintly sickening to Morgana, who had grown up the object of coos and adoration and respect and couldn't really imagine deserving anything but those things no matter how despised she knew herself to be.
She must try to be like Gwen. What would Gwen say if rescued in the forest?
Bravery…chivalry…honour…helping the helpless…would anyone really believe such bunk?
The hardy peasant stock who had taken over the throne would certainly see through her, which is why she had decided to stage her little one woman invasion when they were gone.
To Camelot.
To meet with the king.
The one who sat on her throne.
…But not for long.