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Futuristic ♕ Camelot | ellarose & Syntra

Go through all that. Morgan doesn't have to elaborate any further then that, because she understands intrinsically what she's referring to. Guinevere can only nod with understanding and try to swallow the lump rising in her throat. If their roles were reversed, she knows she would undoubtedly feel the same way. At first, she pointedly ignored what her heart longed for, knowing it would be selfish to acknowledge the way her feelings steered her towards Morgan like a compass when she would inevitably belong to Arthur. After everything they'd been through, ignoring what they had and shutting herself off entirely -- that'd have been cruel, too. There's no winning in a situation like this, is there? Together or apart, both paths would lead to heartache. But things are different now, aren't they? Because she knows something she didn't know back then -- that a secret rebellion is brewing in Camelot's shadows. Despite the hell they'll have to endure, the future's not set in stone.

There isn't much that Guinevere can say in terms of reassurances, except that it won't last forever. That no matter how unpleasant it gets, she'll live through it. However skilled she might be at smiling through the toughest of situations, sugarcoating this, making herself appear unaffected -- it's too high a demand. Trying to make this out to be something she could shrug off would be a delusional lie, but griping about her position wouldn't solve anything, either. Thankfully she isn't expected to fill in that brief silence with words when Morgan's kiss causes her to flush with warmth and she speaks up again. "A gift?" And needless to say, the sight of the vial pressed in her hands makes her eyes brighten with something other than unshed tears. Does this mean--? Oh, thank god.

"Morgan, you're brilliant!" Guinevere clutches the vial and holds it protectively over her heart. She might as well be releasing a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding for the past few months with unadulterated relief, because it obliterates one of her worst fears since stepping through Camelot's gates. A pregnancy would lead to nine months of additional risks traveling the wastes. (A timeframe where she wouldn't be suited for travel at all, really.) And beyond just that, bringing a baby into this world, under these circumstances? Not only would it change her life irrevocably, but it'd be severely unfair to the child. She kisses Morgan on the nose. "Have I ever told you that you're brilliant?"

Guinevere goes on to give Morgan another kiss on the lips this time, savoring it like it might be their last. When she pulls away, she's breathless. Maybe a little subdued beneath the weight of everything she's feeling now, but affectionate nonetheless. "You spoil me." She whispers teasingly. It's true, though. Morgan's always bringing things for her after these long, stressful days -- the dagger hidden behind her skirts offering her a sense of security, the books offering newfound knowledge, and oh, the desserts were always divine (But not quite so divine as the kisses they shared--) Needless to say, her thoughtfulness doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated. "...Thank you." Two little words jam-packed with so much emotion, it's hard to say whether she's saying so for the concoction or for all of it, really.
 
"I don't," Morgan smiled, enjoying Guinevere's loving attention. It was like-- like sunshine, except this sun only shone for her, and she wanted to drown in it. "Or rather, I don't do it nearly enough." Because, if she truly decided to spoil Guinevere, Morgan would straight up kill her brother. It wouldn't even be too difficult, really. There would be Merlin to deal with, yes, and that could potentially turn ugly, but not even the court magician could stop her from commanding the spirits to tear him apart. The problem with that, though? In killing him like this, Morgan would have killed their future, too. Arthur would have been turned into a martyr-- into a soul too pure for this world, a savior who had been betrayed by the wicked witch and brutally murdered. Basically, he would have become this generation's Jesus. Not only would they have killed her in retaliation, but they also would have nurtured his legacy. The next king would have been a man just like him, or perhaps even worse than him, and Guinevere-- well, Guinevere likely would have been forced to marry him as well so that he could consolidate his power. (Once you were a queen, you ceased being human. What you were was a symbol, a symbol similar to a crown or a throne, and the one who owned you was a king. Ugh. Morgan swore she could feel bile rising in the back of her throat, really.)

"But if I can protect you from the worst of it, I'll do it," Morgan promised. Not that she was doing much more than minimizing the damage, but hey, that had to count, right? At least a little bit. With her hands tied like this, she couldn't do much more, and oh, how she hated herself for it. This was the woman she loved, for gods' sake! And how did she express that love? By letting her suffer through a marriage to her brother, with her only solace being the fact that no children would be born from that cursed union. How very, very loving. "I, uh. I was also thinking of different ways to protect you," Morgan continued as she massaged her back gently. "Of different vials I have at my disposal. I can't do that much otherwise it would be suspicious, but from time to time, I can-- I can prepare a sleeping potion for you. Pour it into his wine and he won't bother you that night." Which, again, was just a pitiful bandage on the open, gaping wound, but dammit, it was something. A proof that she cared, really. Guinevere wouldn't get away with doing it every night, of course, though anything to reduce these-- these encounters would likely help. Had their positions been reversed, Morgan at least would have welcomed it.

"Come on," she whispered before leading Guinevere back to her bed. The two of them found themselves sitting on its edge, just like so many times before. (This, too, she would miss-- the casual intimacy of that simple gesture. Existing in her vicinity without having to look over her shoulder constantly, wary of spies and those who would do them harm.) "I promised you another thing, didn't I? The spell that would let you know I'm close. Let's do that now." Because, if she and Arthur were to have a ceremony tomorrow, they could have a ceremony of their own today. Something that would belong to them and them only. A sweet memory to cherish, perhaps.

Morgan took her hands into her own and squeezed them. "That way, we'll always be connected to one another." And with a bond more real than the one that would tie her to Arthur, too-- as Guinevere had said, a piece of paper was just that. It could be burnt, or torn in pieces, or cut with scissors. "I need something you consider to be precious for that ritual. Something that is almost a part of you, really. We'll-- we'll exchange gifts, and then we'll exchange vows."
 
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"Okay." Guinevere smiles, looking from their joined hands to Morgan's eyes. Something precious, hm? Right now, wearing a pretty dress and surrounded by luxury, she might look like a proper heiress. But how much of this can she truly say is hers? Still... there are a few items she can think of. The thing about having so little was that she grew to vastly appreciate -- well, everything in her possession. She stands from the bed and steps over to her wardrobe, opening the doors in search of something. (Normally standing in front of it brings with it flashbacks and a sinking in her gut -- this is precisely where she was standing when she was attacked from behind. But with Morgan's presence and a dagger at her disposal, she knows she's safe.) It's not a dress she's reaching for, of course. She kneels down and quickly locates what she's looking for, stands and turns to reveal a small box that had been hiding in the shadows on the floor. She brings it back to the bed and slowly removes the lid. "Arthur suggested we burn all of this. I told him if he tried, I'd break his legs." That was back before she'd had any lessons, of course, or knew anything about the way Camelot worked. And considering Arthur needed her cooperation all along to make his destiny a reality? It makes sense now that she didn't suffer any repercussions for all those crass threats she just 'didn't know better' for. Probably why he sent her to Morgan effective immediately. (She hadn't known then what would come of it. If she has anything at all to thank Arthur for, perhaps it's that.) "So he brought me a lovely little box to hide it all in."

She begins spreading items from the box out on the bed, one by one. It's not a lot by any means, but it's everything she arrived with. Everything on her back that day, aside from that old bag she carried supplies in. (After all, what use would she have for such things in Camelot? Arthur stuck his nose up at everything in camp, insisted she'd want for nothing once they arrived. All those supplies they risked their lives searching for -- well, he failed to see the significance of them. Because everything was grander and cleaner in his precious Camelot.) There's an oversized army green jacket, a baggy t-shirt with a faded graphic on it advertising some rock band of the past, a skull with flowers growing out of the eye sockets -- for all the time she's worn it, it's not like she knows what their music even sounds like. Then there's her torn up jeans covered in bloodstains. "God... he really tried his best to sneak me in. The few people who saw me in this getup were horrified. One of the ladies pretended to faint. It was very dramatic." Guinevere knows that's where the rumors came from -- a woman arriving in these ratty clothes, covered in blood. 'Possibly diseased', some of them said. Ugh. Back then, she hadn't been prepared at all for what she'd been getting herself into. What would she have done without Morgan? God, she doesn't even want to think of it. It's not an article of clothing she's searching for, actually, though they are important items. Especially come winter. Nothing means more than a jacket to huddle into when you're up against the coldest winds in the wastes. "Ah! There it is."

"I've held onto this longer then my bear, even." Guinevere explains, lifting what seems to be a ring hanging on a black corded necklace. It sparkles in the light, with a tiny ruby embedded in the center. Probably still looks cheap to Camelot's standards, but it's clearly the most extravagant thing she's ever had in her possession. "I was wearing it when I snuck out that day. Before those guys in the masks showed up." Yeah. Not that they let her hold onto it while they conducted their experiments. Initially she thought they kept it from her because she bit one of the guys who tried taking her blood the first time as punishment... but they had never given it back as a reward for good behavior, either, no matter how much she had begged to have it back. They seemed determined to keep it for themselves. Either to sell it off or... well, could it have been something else? Who even knows? As a child, a majority of her past was clouded in a haze of mystery. Something was always hidden from her. It was Jen had stolen it back for her before they escaped and she learned quickly to always wear it under her clothes out in the wastes -- anything that sparkles serves to make you a target out there.

"I never took it off before I got to Camelot." Guinevere holds it out to Morgan with a shy smile, her cheeks tinged pink. The only other viable option was probably her sword -- it was an extension of herself, after all. But this gift is a touch more discreet, for the sake of navigating Camelot's halls. And a ring seems much more fitting, considering she'd just used the word vows. "Will this work?"
 
"Oh, I would have paid actual money to see that," Morgan curled up her lips in a smile. Because Arthur in all his shiny, armored glory, being threatened by Guinevere who must have looked as if she had just escaped from a rock concert? That must have been a sight for gods, truly. (And to think her attitude had caused her so much grief in the beginning! Every day, she had prayed to the gods for the gods to finally lose her pointless rebellious streak, and now-- now, that was her greatest fear. The idea of the spark in Guinevere's eyes going out as she withered away, like a princess locked in some ivory tower? It hurt too much to even contemplate, really. She didn't think it would happen, of course, because Guinevere was stronger than that, but the fear still lingered. What if the marriage was even more terrible than either of them anticipated? What if Arthur broke her? What if she grew to resent her, with her being safe from unwanted advances and Guinevere... not? What if, what if, what if?)

Still, now wasn't the time to be sick with worry. No, now they should enjoy their last moments of freedom-- the last moments they were free of Arthur's shadow, even if that reprieve was illusory. (Since they had never been free of that. Had it not been her brother who had introduced them to one another, after all?) "I'd like to see you in that get-up sometime," Morgan said, smiling gently. Back when they had snuck out of Camelot for the first time, she had been so scandalized by the concept of wearing trousers, hadn't she? Today, however, she only saw it as another form of choice denied to Guinevere. (And yes, dresses were still aesthetically superior as far as Morgan was concerned, but her love should be able to wear whatever she wanted, dammit. Besides, trousers or not, she would be utterly, utterly breathtaking. A piece of cloth could hardly change that, irrespective of its shape.) "Sneak you in, huh? He never deserved you. If you were my bride, I would hold a parade for everyone to see." And, gods, wasn't that oh so appealing? Holding Guinevere's hand in public, kissing her, wrapping her in a hug? (A future they might never have, all things considered. It was also a future that wasn't impossible, though, and that gave her the strength to fight. A light at the end of this dark, dark tunnel.)

When Guinevere showed her a ring, however? Morgan's heart just about stopped. "It's beautiful," she whispered, and it was true. It looked cheap and fake, yes, but to her, it may as well have been the most precious piece of jewellery she had ever owned. How could it not, given what it symbolized?

After a moment of hesitation, Morgan reached beneath her dress, and pulled out a silver locket. She opened it and held it in front of Guinevere so that she could see all the details-- there was a photograph of a young woman inside, and she was smiling warmly. Despite it being a stranger, there was something... vaguely familiar about her? "My mother," Morgan explained. "This is the last gift she gave to me before-- well, before everything went to shit." Why had she kept it, even? Out of love for her? No, that couldn't be. The sorceress had, after all, eradicated all traces of it from her heart quite diligently. Maybe-- maybe it reminded her of better times, though. Of the times when she had still been innocent and believed in something that wasn't herself. And since Guinevere had given something else to believe in? It was only appropriate for her to have it, really.

"You'll sense my magic when I trigger the spell and you need to let it in," Morgan continued. "It won't work if it isn't consensual. I'll say my vows first, then it'll be your turn. It doesn't actually matter what you say-- the point is to reciprocate." Speaking of which, Morgan actually hadn't prepared some grand speech, either. So, uh, what now? Improvisation, of course. "Gwen," she began, her eyes lighting up with the strange, blue-ish hue that indicated the presence of magic, "I don't have much to give, but I can give you this, and along with it, myself." As she spoke, Morgan put the locket around her neck, fastening it carefully. "I promise to stand by your side physically when I can, and in spirit when I can't. Will you let me?"
 
Guinevere stares thoughtfully at the photograph when it's presented to her. When she hears the woman is Morgan's mother, she can even trace some of the resemblances between them. Before everything went to shit. Briefly, something unexplainable seems to stir behind her eyes. Because there's the echo of a memory ringing in her mind. A memory that doesn't belong to her -- but to Morgan. One that she shouldn't have seen to begin with, really. Though she had been swept up into Morgan's mind entirely against her will, she still feels guilty for it. The image of Morgan as a child, sitting alone in the dark, calling out for her mother... blood on her arms. Nothing about that seemed remotely okay or pleasant and just the thought wrung her up on the inside. (There's the memory of her hands around her throat, too -- one might have thought that those nightmares would have ceased by now, knowing Morgan doesn't harbor any ill will towards her for it, but they haven't.) Will they ever get the chance to talk about it? Likely not tonight, all things considered, but... maybe one day. No matter what, Guinevere intends to respect the past Morgan keeps so close to her chest.

"I promise I'll keep it safe." Guinevere says sincerely, understanding there must be a vast amount of significance attached to the locket in spite of what little she knows. Morgan herself had said it needed to be something she considered precious -- she takes her for her word on that. It doesn't escape her, either, that despite how different they are, there's actually a similarity between the gifts they chose for each other, one that's impossible to ignore. She glances between the two items they had chosen before looking at Morgan with a small smile. "...This ring belonged to my mother. I think it did, anyway." Maybe it's a bit ironic, considering the liquid in the vial she had given her moments ago would save her from being a mother herself.

The thing is, Guinevere doesn't know whether her own mother is dead or alive. She briefly considered the possibility of using magic to find out when she realized it was a possibility... but names are signifiant, aren't they? She doesn't know her mother's name. The color of her eyes, the sound of her laugh, whether it was her decision to leave them or not -- it's all one big, unsolved mystery. (And one of the many reasons why seeing herself as a mother is mortifying -- she's never known exactly what it entails, having never known a mother's touch herself.) There's just this ring and the vague implication it belonged to her once upon a time. As much as she loved her old man, he was secretive. It'd taken a lot of snooping on her part just to find the ring in the first place.

Guinevere braces herself with a breath when Morgan begins the spell, closing her eyes briefly before looking her directly in the eyes. It's when they begin to glow that she senses the presence of her magic and immediately opens herself up to receive her. Her own eyes take on a matching sheen in an instant. To think that a few months ago, all of this would have absolutely terrified her. The magic, let alone the concept of welcoming it into herself openly like this. But now, it only promises her a sense of comfort, of warmth and safety. Knowing that when this is done, they'll be able to sense each other. Even after their lives in Camelot take on such a drastic change "Of course. And I'll do the same for you. We'll be together, even when we're apart." On the fly, it's not the most eloquent thing she could have said, but she persists nonetheless. Once the locket is fastened around her neck, she leans forward to fasten the necklace with her ring around Morgan's in return, to reciprocate the action, to solidify it. "Along with this, I am yours. Always."
 
The magic tingled sharply in her nose, and just like that, it was done. This particular spell, after all, didn't require much energy-- not when Guinevere had agreed to it, anyway. It would feed off them both, and as such, the cost would be miniscule. (And Morgan? Morgan welcomed that. Not because she was afraid of shedding some blood, of course, but because it being so painless felt... appropriate? A sharp contrast to the union that would be sealed tomorrow, really.) "Always," Morgan repeated as she clutched the ring, sounding somewhat melancholic. Always was a pretty long time, wasn't it? (Honestly, the sorceress wasn't sure whether she believed that. She believed that Guinevere believed it, but as for how this would actually turn out? Nobody could tell. It was entirely possible that-- that she would abandon her, just like everyone else. That she would see her for what she truly was, and decided to cut her off. Or maybe it wouldn't be as dramatic as that? Maybe they'd just drift apart, with Guinevere overwhelmed by her new duties and unable to find the time for her. Relationships were, after all, notoriously fragile-- like snowflakes near a fireplace. So, so many of them were fated to fall apart, even in much kinder circumstances. What made her think this one could last? This-- this infatuation reliant on lies and sneaking around?)

Despite her doubts, though, Morgan said nothing. Ultimately, they didn't matter, did they? Because even if they might grow to consider one another to be strangers one day, that very much wasn't true today. The difference between living in the moment and worrying about the future, really. (And maybe, maybe that was the cure for her trust issues. Just-- not caring, and enjoying what they had now. The desire that burned bright in her heart? It was real, so very real, and souring it with her anxieties wouldn't help anyone.)

"Yes, always," she repeated, seemingly a little more sure of herself than before. The thought processes that had just led her to that conclusion? Morgan didn't feel like elaborating on them, really. No, she knew her lack of conviction would only hurt Guinevere, and that was just about the last thing she wanted to do. Gwen didn't need to suffer more than she already did!

Gently, Morgan caressed her face, her hair, her neck. (Her neck where the locket rested now, as a reminder of what they shared and what Arthur would try to rip from their fingers soon. Gods, the idea made her feel so nauseous.) She leaned closer and kissed her once again, desperately, as if trying to drown that feeling in her. Partially, it worked. Hmm. Perhaps she needed more than that now, though? (She needed some semblance of control, really. Not over Guinevere, but over what would happen to her-- to them. A decision of her own that would be more than just her flailing around blindly, reacting to whatever bullshit fate threw at them. At the same time, though? The decision couldn't be hers only. Not when it involved Guinevere in such an intimate way, anyway. What if-- what if she didn't want to? With the thoughts of the wedding plaguing her mind, it wouldn't shock Morgan.)

And so she pulled away, even if that was the exact opposite of what she wanted to do. "Gwen. Can I-- can I stay tonight?" It was only right to ask, especially since they hadn't crossed that line before. They had, after all, still been getting to know each other. "I just, uh, thought there might not be that many opportunities afterwards. We can do-- whatever you want, really. Talk, or maybe other things as well."As for what 'other things' she had meant-- well, Morgan was too shy to elaborate, but it wasn't like she had to. The crimson that stained her cheeks told that story quite eloquently.
 
Guinevere can feel the magic flowing through her veins. And just as soon as it begins, the spell ends. She closes her eyes and smiles fondly after Morgan repeats her always, searches for the effects of their spell inside herself. It's undoubtably there. A subtle sensation she probably wouldn't even notice unless she searched for it specifically. It's like her heartbeat. Always there, always beating, but she isn't always thinking about it unless she's fighting a monster, running as fast as her feet could carry her or -- or flustered. And it's certainly making itself known right now by pounding against her chest when Morgan caresses her so gently. The softness of her touch prompts Guinevere to open her eyes again, to look at her. She never would have thought the effects of magic could be so beautiful, too. It had offered her the sweet release of escape when she'd been locked up with that cult and allowed them the chance to stay close against Arthur's will... even if from tomorrow onward, it's more in spirit than before. There's an agency in magic she had never known before. (Because all she had known until now was the wastes, where everything was different. Unpredictable. The universe could hurl a pack of monsters your way, a storm, a group of thugs or thieves. Always forced her to adapt. Magic, whether used for good or bad, always created a steep decline to a terrible conclusion. Sometimes supplies were lacking and the consequences were... severe.) When Morgan leans forward to kiss her, she's receptive and leans in closer, the same way she had reacted to her magic just moments before. Wouldn't it be nice if this night never ended? That's her thought precisely the moment that Morgan decides to pull away and she has to swallow down the urge to make a stubborn little noise of protest in the back of her throat. That'd be childish. But now that they're so close, she's dreading the moment they'll inevitably have to separate. Because in a matter of hours, day will break and -- oh. She's asking to stay the night? The answer to that question is always an unhesitating yes, but before she can say it Morgan continues.

"Other..." A bit oblivious to start with, Guinevere's about to pose it as a question. Ask what she means by that... but when she notices her blush she finally connects the connotations and her cheeks fill in with a rosy hue of their own. Oh. Yeah, she's definitely aware of her heartbeat right about now. Swallowing to relieve her suddenly dry throat, she nods and gently places a hand on the other woman's knee. "Of course you can stay, Morgan."

"But, um, you need to know that I've actually never..." Guinevere's own gaze drifts off to a corner of the room. Well... she has and hasn't? Because she does have experience. She's given to her partners in the past -- but never been on the receiving end herself. That was her own doing, though, it was never the fault of anyone else. They'd offer and she'd claim to be too tired before anything could come of it. Having spent her teenage years hearing nightmarish accounts of Jen's experiences, she tended to overthink too much to get comfortable. And even if she's open minded to the prospect now after so much time has passed... Arthur stepped into the picture and that was that. Still, she has to get it off her chest. "When it comes to other things-- I mean, it'd be a first for me."

Kind of an uncomfortable reality to voice, considering what tomorrow would entail. If she had to give that first time to anyone, of course she'd rather give it to Morgan than Arthur. That might as well go unsaid at this point. But she doesn't want to voice it in those exact words, either. Guinevere had to tell her the truth, but she doesn't want Morgan to feel an obligation to rush this if deep down she isn't ready. It is a big step. And it's not as though anything Arthur does to her behind closed doors would mean anything years from now, in that distant potential future of their own. She wouldn't dare hold anything that does or doesn't happen tonight against Morgan. That'd be unfair. The situation they're in is just... well, it's unfathomable, really.

With a steeling breath, Guinevere presses a kiss to Morgan's forehead and gingerly arranges some of her hair back behind her ear. "We can start with talking and see where it leads us." She looks her in the eyes, seeking comfort and hoping the softness of her own gaze offers it in return. "Can't go wrong if we're honest with each other, right?"
 
"Never... what?" Morgan asked, her brow furrowed. What had Guinevere even meant by-- oh. Oh, that. Damn. She deserved a few slaps for that question, didn't she? Because with the context being what it was, it should have been so obvious! Why the hell hadn't it occurred to her before? (Maybe due to-- well, due to her past circumstances. That, and also because of how beautiful she was. As in, someone from her gang must have found her attractive, right? Moreover, sheer probability dictated that Gwen, too, had likely fancied some of her friends at some point in time. It would have been only natural. That danger made people closer was an old axiom, after all, and the wastes were nothing if not dangerous. And without all those stupid rules that defined the life in Camelot? Morgan had just-- assumed. Wrongly, as it turned out.)

"Oh. Well," the sorceress said, licking her lips. Suddenly, they felt very, very dry. What was the feeling in the pit of her stomach? Nervousness? Excitement? A little bit of both, maybe? Either way, Morgan knew she had to react somehow, especially after such a confession. "That-- doesn't really matter, does it? I mean, everyone has to start somewhere." Which, while true, was possibly the least romantic thing she could have said! Gods. Wasn't the supposed to be the one with silver tongue? The one who always knew what to say, how to sway people's minds? (Statements prefixed with 'always', though, hardly applied to Guinevere. That, at least, Morgan understood.) After staring at her for a few seconds, she just-- erupted in laughter. It was an unconstrained, almost hysterical thing, and when the lack of air finally forced her to stop, she found herself utterly breathless. "I'm sorry," Morgan apologized in between giggles and wiped away the tear theatening to spill from her eye, "I'm not laughing at you, I promise. I'm laughing at myself, in fact. For being such a lousy, lousy speaker when it truly counts." Morgan wrapped her in her arms so that they might be even closer, and planted another small kiss into her hair. Well. Since Guinevere had been so honest with her, now it was her turn, wasn't it? Gods, how utterly terrifying. (It would be alright. With her, everything would be. There might be problems along the way, yes, but just as rivers inevitably converged in an ocean, they, too, would reach some sort of understanding. A genuine effort was all it took.)

"Gwen," Morgan said, looking her right in the eye despite feeling like a deer in headlights, "before you, I've never even kissed anyone. That's how new this is to me." Because-- well, yeah. Within the walls of Camelot, there just hadn't been anyone she had trusted enough. There had been people Morgan had found attractive, of course, though only on a theoretical level; even the idea of her possibly approaching them with-- with such solicitations had felt about as foolish as, say, jumping off a cliff and expecting to fly. (Besides, they had always been women. That had reduced her chances to lower than zero, considering just how frowned upon such relations were. Even if some of them returned her feelings-- well, would they have sabotaged their only opportunity for a decent life for a few fleeting moments of pleasure? Morgan hadn't thought so. Hell, she still didn't.)

"So," she continued with a small smile on her lips, "believe me, I'm the last person here who will judge you for being, uh, inexperienced. In fact, it sort of makes me feel calmer about the whole thing? I mean, it probably will be strange and awkward, but at least it won't be my fault only." Ah, there she went with mood killers again! Wonderful. Great job, really.

"The point is," Morgan forced herself to talk some more despite that, "that I-- don't expect some grand, miraculous thing, to put it bluntly. I just want to be close to you. As close as it gets. And yeah, I did suggest it out of blue like that because I thought that this might be one of the rarer opportunities for us to, uh, figure things out with no real pressure involved, but I'm also fine with waiting some more. Ugh. Am I being too rational about this? Because it does feel like that," she admitted after a while. Then again, spontaneity just wasn't something she could afford often, so it made sense? Kind of? At this point, Morgan didn't know.
 
Guinevere smiles sheepishly as she listens to Morgan's laugh, tries to ignore the pang in her stomach when the little voice in her head wonders whether or not it would be the last time she got to hear it for a while. The reassurances help ease some of her nerves, even though the concept of judgement was far from her mind. The thought still counts for something. And she can relate to wanting to be as close to her as she can before... before tomorrow. To hear that Morgan's feelings mirror her own on that subject make her feel more comfortable about it in turn. (They're both willing to wait for each other -- but if they both want this now, then... well, what's stopping them?) She giggles and kisses her on the forehead again. "You wouldn't be Morgan if you weren't rational." She points out affectionately. Besides, isn't it better to be rational than irrational? Carelessness gets you killed in this world. Out in the wastes, too. Sure, there weren't any of Camelot's strict rules to abide by... but danger could come hurtling towards you at any point and it's best not to be caught unawares. (She'd learned that lesson the hard way, too -- the scar under her eye is proof of that.) Point is, she gets it. She really does. And she wouldn't feel nearly as comfortable if they weren't able to talk it through like this. "Which is a good thing, because I don't want to be with anyone but you. And I -- I want to be close to you, too. As close as possible."

They'll figure this out together, won't they? Just like everything else.

"If this is the last actual decision I get to make for a while, dammit... it might as well be this." Guinevere leans in and kisses her, feeling it provides her answer better than any words can at this point. Though it's not brief by any means, it doesn't last for nearly as long as she would have liked. (But there'll be far more, she's sure, if they keep going like this.) Morgan said in no uncertain terms that she wanted to be close to her, too, but this is just as much the other woman's decision. She wouldn't be able to reach for more in good conscious unless she checked in every now and then, to gauge how she's feeling. She's just a little breathless when she speaks again. "You'll tell me if it feels like we're moving too fast, right?"

From that moment onward, the night they spend together does pass far too quickly for her liking -- but not at all in the way Guinevere had been concerned about. It was a wonderful evening and therefore fleeting. They didn't rush into things haphazardly. They were gentle and loving and moved at a comfortable pace that suited them both. Inevitably there were some clumsy, awkward moments along the way... and yet that only made the experience all the more real. Not illusionary in the slightest, because they made it theirs. Guinevere and Morgan, with no fancy titles, and Camelot being the furthest thing from their minds. And it was everything, really. The feeling of Morgan in her arms was everything. Now she has the memories, safe and sound in her mind. They can serve as a reminder whenever she needs to bolster herself with the strength she needs to keep fighting for their future.

And Guinevere's sure as hell going to need a burst of herculean strength now. Because having to part ways with Morgan and rise to face the light of day may very well have been one of the hardest things she's had to do in Camelot thus far. It's the emotional whiplash of inhabiting a beautiful dream and waking up to the nightmare of her new reality. Apart, a few last minute wedding preparations take up the entirety of her morning and pass her by in a blur. And before she knows it, she's forced to confront her reflection in the mirror. Sporting her wedding dress. Compared to Jen's, it's very plain, but still quite beautiful thanks to Marietta's handiwork. (No doubt the loveliest dress she's ever worn in her life.) Never before has she been this polished up -- with the extra touches of make up on her face, she feels that she resembles her twin sister more than herself. A happier bride might have ogled her own reflection, but Guinevere's expression is grim with the knowingness that she's about to sign her life away for the foreseeable future.

With an ironclad sense of responsibility, though, she's far from hopeless. The spark in her hasn't died. She might resemble a pretty little doll but that's the farthest thing from what she is. Because she intends to survive this, just like she's survived everything else life has thrown at her up until this point. Adapt to anything that life had to throw at her and own it.

Apparently it would have been a family tradition for Morgan to help her get ready for the occasion. She'd heard that Arthur had allowed her to do so with Jen, the amnesiac Guinevere. (The Guinevere that, to his knowledge, that had no preexisting friendship with his sister.) Circumstances being what they are now, though... he only had enough 'mercy' in his heart to permit her to walk her down the aisle. The maid who had been attending to her answers politely enough when Morgan arrives at the door before rushing out in a hurry, allowing them a final moment of privacy before the inevitable happens. Though her presence always brings with it a sense of safety, having to face her today makes her heart ache for what she can't have. (Why can't they run away together again? Ugh. No, no, she's got to pull herself together.) If not physically, they stand together in spirit. That's what they promised the night before.

"--Morgan." Guinevere brings herself to her feet, a bit wobbly, and has to momentarily hold her hands out at her sides. (The heels they're making her wear are killing her! Does Arthur want her to twist an ankle on her way down the aisle or something?) She tries to smile at herself in vain, though it's clearly pained. "I'm never going to get used to these stilts." The attempt to be light and cheery in the face of adversity inevitably falters, though, making room for a mix of anxiousness and a quiet sense of longing she knows neither of them have the time to act on, now. "...It's almost time, isn't it?" Oh god. Any moment now, the music would start and... she bites her lip, trying to fight down rising a wave of nausea.
 
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"I will," Morgan promised, a smile blooming on her lips. Because, talking to Guinevere? That was the easiest thing in the world, no matter how her nervousness might trip her up. And the reason behind that-- well, the reason was that Guinevere listened. She listened, and learned, and always tried to meet her in the middle, even with some of her more unreasonable demands. (That was why she wasn't afraid. In her fantasies, fear had always been an intrinsic part of this-- one that could not be willed away, really, considering just how close to her heart she had kept it. It had been a reflex. Well, that, and maybe it had also been sort of thrilling? The idea of hiding, of doing something forbidden right under her brother's nose. Which, yeah, that had likely been far from psychologically healthy, but honestly, who cared? It had filled her with adrenaline, and when swept up by that current, nothing really mattered. Right now, however? It was so, so different Morgan might as well have cried. Hell, maybe she had at some point. Someone handling her with such care was as new as it was overwhelming, and she could only hope Guinevere felt a fraction of what she did.)

The morning, of course, came way too early, and when it did, every fiber in her body screamed at her to try and talk her into running away again. To paint a picture of their future together untarnished by Arthur, petty politics and Camelot in general. Surely, surely she wouldn't be able to resist this time? ...except that she would, because Guinevere was nothing if not stubborn, and so Morgan didn't bring it up. It-- it would have been too cruel, really. Basically dangling her heart's greatest desire out of her, but inches out of her reach. (Gods. Why did she have to be so goddamn dutiful? Had she been less responsible, less self-sacrificing, then-- then perhaps Morgan wouldn't have loved her at all, for she would have been someone else entirely. What an unpleasant conundrum. Still, gotta take the good with the bad, right?) And so, shortly before she crept out of her room like some thief, the sorceress said nothing. There was, after all, nothing to say. Nothing could possibly dull the ache in her chest, and nothing could change the painful reality of her marrying Arthur into something-- something more acceptable. Still, even so, Morgan leaned closer and kissed her once again. She squeezed her hand, too, to express what words couldn't convey. 'I'm still with you, my love.'

In a way, it was a blessing that she didn't have to participate in the wedding preparations this time. Did it change anything? Oh, of course it didn't. Not even remotely. The world was still dark and twisted, with Guinevere denied to her. It did, however, give her a lot of time to cry in her room, and so she did it to her heart's content. She cried, cried and cried, cried until her eyes were red and throat raw, and it was-- well, pretty useless in terms of changing anything, too, but at least she wasn't lying to herself. Not here and not now, anyway. And wasn't sincerity worth more than gold in Camelot?

By the time the dreaded hour came, of course, Morgan looked flawless. Make-up hid all the traces of her tears, for which she was thankful-- Guinevere, after all, needed a comrade in arms, not a weepy mess. And Arthur? Arthur didn't have to see how much he had hurt her with this stunt, either. (What a delicious, delicious irony. For so many years, he had been trying to break her, only for his efforts to get stopped by the barrier of sheer indifference. Never once had his words, his deeds, truly touched her. This wedding, though? Oh, how close it had come to his goal! Even if it had never been about her in the first place-- or maybe due to it, really. Because if she was the one to stand at the altar and say the words with Guinevere? Morgan would be the happiest woman in the world.)

That very much wasn't the case, however. "Good afternoon," Morgan forced herself to smile at Guinevere. (Damn, did she yearn to rip that dress off her. Not even to do something, uh, untoward, but to free her of her shackles. Of her destiny.) Instead, though, she heard herself say: "You're beautiful, Gwen. I do agree that stilts are entirely horrible, though. Not a single redeeming feature. I bet they were only ever designed to stop women from running away--" Uh oh, too close to home. Fortunately (or not), they didn't have the time to deal with the clumsiness of her words; not when the music started playing, sweet and sweeping. "Well. Yes. Time to go, I suppose." Taking her hands in hers, Morgan led Guinevere to the great hall-- and felt as if she was leading her to the gallows instead. Gwen. My Gwen, she wanted to say, just like that night they had given themselves to one another, but there were too many people. So, so many guests-- Morgan didn't recognize a half of them, really. Perhaps even three fourths? She did recognize the men standing at the altar, however. There was a priest, obviously; an old, decrepit creature that had terrified her as a child. And next to him-- next to him was Arthur, dressed in all his finery. (He did look handsome, Morgan supposed. Her own hatred notwithstanding, she had to admit he was attractive to other people. Too many pieces of evidence pointed to that conclusion. To her, though? He was utterly disgusting, with the stupid smile spread on his lips and a willingness to take what should never have been his in the first place.)

Still, still she had to say those words, though. "To you, my brother, I bring your bride. Lady Guinevere." (To her credit, her voice didn't shake. An observer who knew her well might have detected some degree of hesitance in her words, but Arthur had never cared to know her. Good.)

The priest nodded. "Welcome in the house of gods, lady Guinevere. Are you ready to say your vows?" Because, of course, it was up to her to do it first. She needed to offer herself to her husband, so that he might accept her kindly. Ugh.
 
Guinevere is impenetrable to the many eyes gazing at her as she walks down the aisle. Doesn't falter or stumble. She's had plenty of time by now to reconcile with this fate. Time to practice holding her every expression and gesture in check, as not to prompt Camelot to pounce on her like ravenous vultures. No, she's putting every little piece of Morgan's advice to good use now. (This might as well be her first big exam. The banquet might have been if -- if that night hadn't ended in disaster. Now she's a centerpiece. Everyone's eyes are on her and she can't afford to screw it all up.) Every step forward has a sense of purpose, knowing she can't fight for her future until she goes through with this first. So she pushes herself to carry on despite the heaviness of dread weighing in her heart. Only Morgan would notice something is off about her in these moments, undoubtably feeling the tremor in her hand. The way she squeezes her tightly as if she never wants to let go before they inevitably have to part. Deep down, though it's not even those subtle gestures that would make her privy to her true feelings -- because, well, she already knows everything.

"...Yes, I'm ready." Guinevere says dutifully when she's anything but. She isn't ready... and she never will be! But damn it, she has to do it anyway. God. Arthur must be an excellent actor himself to smile at her like that without harboring even an ounce of love in his heart for her. Or is he wearing that expression on his face because he's genuinely happy that he's going to steal her life away from her? She might not be scowling openly (lord knows she wouldn't be able to express herself that way without repercussions) but she certainly isn't forcing herself to smile back at him, either. The neutral expression on her face now is perfectly regal -- it's what little she can get away with, really, since it still gives off the impression that she's still taking the occasion seriously. Like any future queen should.

“I, Guinevere Leodegrance, take you Arthur Pendragon to be my husband." Guinevere's numb to it at this point. (These are nothing at all like the vows she gave to Morgan the night before. Though her words were clumsy then, at least they were personal and honest.) Besides, Arthur had fed her these old, traditional vows the day before. Forced her to practice saying them over and over until she had every syllable memorized, until every ounce of hesitance, every stutter was smoothed over. She's said them so many times at this point that they ceased to have any meaning -- they're just tedious. Memorizing her vows wasn't so much a bother as the fact that she had to make a genuine effort not to gag on them. Every breath sears her throat with an agonizing fire that begs to be released. It takes every ounce of self control she has to sound doting and gentle. Like a proper lady. “To have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish...” Ugh. As if this wasn't bad enough already, it's this next bit that she loathes the very most. The worst part of the cursed vows he gave her. "--and to obey, till death us do part." Humiliating, humiliating, humiliating! She hates it.

Having to say it in front of all of these people -- in front of Morgan, in whose hands her heart truly belongs. It makes her want to curl up and die on the inside. (Easy to tear up. Easy to burn. Like paper. That's what these vows are. Not now, but one day -- she'll be free again. Won't she?)

That's probably the reason why Arthur's smiling, huh. He's been dying to hear Guinevere promise to obey him, hasn't he? Does he think that, perhaps, becoming a married woman will finally force her to, in his words, 'see reason'? (So primitive, to think that marriage and motherhood would somehow change who a woman is so intrinsically!) Does he think she'll be enlightened under his direct supervision, that it'll transform her into someone else? Though it feels as though her fighting spirit has abandoned her body at the altar, he's got another thing coming if he thinks he's going to steal it from her without a fight. For now, though, she has to endure. Wait it out and ignore the subtle stinging behind her eyes. So she braces herself and holds Arthur's gaze firmly. Knowing she'd rather be looking elsewhere right now. Looking at Morgan, specifically, standing somewhere behind her now. (But beside her in spirit, right?) The beautiful woman she had promised her future to, if she ever had the opportunity to choose for herself again.
 
To Morgan's credit, she managed to keep her expression neutral, mostly. Those around her? They only saw the king's sister-- a woman who was more disinterested than she had any right to be, but certainly not grief-stricken. And honestly? It was actually easier than she had expected it to be, not harder. Guinevere marrying Arthur was the height of injustice, of course, and she would much rather tear his throat out personally than witness this, though her words-- well, they weren't hers. No, they were just... empty, ceremonial phrases. Remnants of the old world, really, with a few creative adjustments doubtlessly made by Arthur. Nothing, absolutely nothing about this was Guinevere's in any way. The vows they had exchanged yesterday, however? Oh, how they had rang true. Even now, Morgan could hear them in her head, just as clearly as she could sense her lips on hers, or feel her hands on her body. (He would never, never take that away from her. Well, that, and their future, too. Because, the words he had chosen contain this little 'till death us do part'? How very convenient. Just another motivation to make sure he wouldn't die of old age! As if she needed more of it at this point, really.)

Arthur's smile widened when Guinevere recited the words obediently, probably congratulating himself. (Damn. Had his face always been this punchable? Morgan had never loved him, but she had never quite wanted to hurt him in a manner this tangible, either.) "And I, Arthur Pendragon, take you, Guinevere Leodegrance, to be my wife. To have and to hold from this way forward. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer..." Wow. Listening to him like that, Morgan would almost, almost be inclined to believe he actually meant those words. He really was acting his little heart out, wasn't he? (Or perhaps he had managed to convince himself of his own delusions, which would have been even more pathetic.) "...in sickness and in health, to love and cherish, and to protect, till death us do part." Because of course he would never, not in a million years, choose to obey Guinevere-- or even hear her out, really. Gods, Morgan had to bite the inside of her face to avoid bursting out in laughter now. (It was a bitter, almost desperate thing, but it threatened to spill from her lips nonetheless. Protect? Really? From whom? Himself? Oh no, no, no. Her brother wasn't as generous. Whatever protection he had offered her was symbolic, paid for in her own blood. In her blood and dignity.)

If the priest noticed the lack of warmth between the two, he said nothing. Instead, he looked upwards and clasped his hands. "Very well. The gods have heard your words, and they accepted them. From this day onwards, you are husband and wife. You may kiss the bride," he said to Arthur. Arthur, of course, didn't need to be told twice; he leaned towards her, as confident as ever, and pressed a kiss on her lips. (Technically their first proper one, actually, because he had always avoided them. The first of many to come. And Morgan? Morgan couldn't suppress a shudder in that moment, but it wasn't like anyone paid her any attention. No, all eyes were on the royal couple.)

Afterwards, crowns were placed on their heads. The one Guinevere was meant to wear was practically just a thin, gold headband, but what he was given-- gods, Morgan had never seen anything so distasteful in her entire life. Like, hello? Did subtlety mean nothing to him? Back when precious metals had still had some sort of value, selling it could have likely fed three decently sized cities!

When the ceremony was over with, the guests began clapping, and Morgan joined them. Not doing so would have been highly suspicious, after all-- just like straight up leaving, even if that was her heart's greatest desire right now. No, she had to drain this cup of bitterness to the very last drop. And then-- then the musicians switched into a different mode, and it was obvious they expected them to dance. That they expected Guinevere and Arthur to dance, really, because the first dance always belonged to the newlyweds.

In love with his precious traditions, Arthur led Guinevere to the center of the room and put his arms around her. "You truly are beautiful," he told her once they began moving to the music. "I was-- wary, but I believe you'll make a great queen." So, a translation: "You're a good enough decoration." How uplifting, huh?
 
Damn it. Guinevere's held it together thus far. Walking and talking like a proper lady had taken months of fine tuning to perfect -- and she performed her role with enough grace that anyone who saw her now wouldn't believe that she'd grown up in the wastelands. It's Arthur's lips on hers, though, that finally puts a dent in her composure. The fate she dreaded sealed with a kiss. (Ugh. She resents the voice in her head that tells her that she'll have to get used to it. Because it's a steep, downhill ride from here, isn't it?) When he pulls away, she's not flushed, but pale as the white of her wedding dress. In her ears, the applause fizzles out and everything around her blurs for an instant. There's the vague sensation of the delicate, gold circlet being set on her head before she's led to the center of the room in a sort of daze. (Neutral and vacant, she may as well be switched on autopilot.) This day is far from over, unfortunately. She has to conquer yet another bout of nausea when he puts his hands on her to dance. It's evident now that that brief period of time that he decided he had better things to do than pepper her face and hands with kisses is over. From his point of view, she might as well be his property now. By Camelot's old fashioned standards, technically, she is. As of now, she's Arthur's wife. And a queen. Lord help her.

Not only does Guinevere have to follow his lead for the dance, she basically has to rely on him for balance in these blasted heels. (For a moment, she remembers when she and Morgan had practiced dancing together. It feels like ages ago, now. Come to think of it, she had felt safe in her arms even then, before their bond grew to what it is now. Wouldn't it be nice to dance like that again? But... now's not the time to get lost in a fantasy.) While the sound of Arthur's voice grates on her nerves like nothing else, having a conversation to latch onto with does help distract her from the utter disgust crawling under her skin where his hands lay. Wary, he says... pot, meet kettle.

"I guess from your perspective, that's my only redeeming quality, isn't it? That I'm beautiful." Guinevere muses dully, unmoved and unimpressed by his sorry attempt to compliment her. Every eye in this room might be glued to them now, but no one's within earshot now. That word only manages to fluster her when Morgan says it. Because the way Morgan says it, well, it feels like she's acknowledging her beyond just the surface level. (For being Guinevere.) Arthur, though? Arthur was nearly fooled into marrying her twin sister! Mere seconds away from it, in fact. It's laughable, really, considering he just made a vow to protect her. As if he'd ever catch her waiting around with baited breath for his protection. It's just as much of a sham as her promise to obey him was.

Excalibur seems to believe she'll have significance in the grand scheme of things, so Arthur does too. It's as simple as that. He'd told her just as much the other day. Even so, she's still no closer to understanding her connection to the magic sword. Practically drowning in wedding preparations up until this point, she'd had no time to arrange a meeting with Merlin. (No time for anything of substance, really, with the exception of Morgan's late night visits. Her one and only saving grace. Oh -- what is she going to do without her, now? She hates to think of it. Can't dwell on it, really, if she doesn't want her heart to shatter into a million pieces.) She hasn't even had time to run any supplies to her gang. It been well over two months now since she last visited them... and the dilemma of the missing girls still remains unresolved. God. God, she hopes they're all right out there. Thoughts of them, hungry and suffering, bolster her with the strength she needs to carry on. Their dance concludes and the occasion bleeds well on into the evening, when the guests are asked to converge into the banquet hall for food and more dancing.

Unlike the night of the banquet, Arthur sticks to Guinevere's side throughout like a leech. Either it's due to the nature of the occasion, or maybe he's concerned she'll disappear and cause him trouble again. Considering every celebratory occasion he's planned to honor of their 'blessed' union has seemed to go awry thus far, she supposes it makes sense. (As in she's ended up a bloody mess by the end of each of them. Shouldn't that already be a sign that it's a cursed union instead?) Greeting guests, acting as a perfectly cordial royal couple, the first few hours drag on... and then alcohol's served in their midst and Arthur finds himself entertained enough by the company of his knights that she can finally afford to slip away. As much as she would love to seek out a moment of solace at Morgan's side, she knows they can't afford to do so out in the open. Not with so many people around. So she finds herself wandering over to Merlin's side. The man seems to be keeping to himself on the sidelines... the opportunity is there and she has to take it.

"Good evening, Merlin." Guinevere's had more practice exchanging obligational niceties than she ever has in one day, it comes to her like second nature at this point. "Are you enjoying the festivities?" It quickly becomes evident that she hasn't just materialized at the wizard's side for small talk, though, when pairing her polite little smile with the serious glint in her eyes. "...I've actually been meaning to speak with you for a while now." Her gaze drifts across the room to where Arthur is for a beat, with a hidden meaning. She's got to play the devoted wife who intends to do nothing but support her husband, after all. "I have some questions. Arthur told me I should go to you with them."
 
"It's not," Arthur said, deeply offended. "You're also dutiful. That is more than anyone can ask for in a wife." Ah, dutiful. Sure. What he meant by that was actually obedient, wasn't it? Because, to him, Guinevere certainly must have looked obedient now. She had gone through a rebellious phase, most certainly, but she had also said the words as instructed, and tonight she would give herself to him. Any form of independence she might have had at some point would soon dissolve in the machinery of Camelot, too. So, in other words, he had won. (Which was probably why he was wearing that stupid, stupid smile on his face. This wasn't the expression of a man happy to marry the love of his life-- oh no, not even remotely. More than that, he looked like someone who had won the lottery. And hey, wasn't that what she was to him? His lucky ticket buying him the right to Excalibur-- and also his precious, precious heirs.) "But yes, your being beautiful is a good thing. Such traits should be passed on."

Meanwhile, Morgan sat on one of the benches brought into the hall to accomodate for the large number of guests and drank wine; she did so quite enthusiastically, too. Alcohol had never really been her thing, mostly because she had always felt the need to control herself at all times, but honestly? To hell with sobriety today! Anything, anything that would dull the ache in her heart just a little bit would do. It was either that or punching Arthur in the face, and she wasn't desperate enough to self-destruct in such a spectacular way yet. Yet was the key word here, though. Maybe in a few more cups? (Gods, she had no idea whether she was drinking to prevent herself from doing just that or to gather the necessary courage. Did it even matter, though? Wine was wine, after all. The effect would ultimately be the same, regardless of her intentions.) Either way, another cup of wine disappeared in her, and the world was starting to spin. Good. Just a little longer and it would start blurring, too, at which point she would no longer be able to tell people apart reliably. And what did that mean? That she wouldn't have to deal with seeing Arthur's stupid face, duh!

"I had no idea you had that in you, lady Morgan," one of the married ladies sitting near her giggled. "You must be very happy for your brothet to celebrate like that."

"...right," Morgan pierced her with a glare that could potentially kill, "never been happier in my fucking life." The lady in question appeared to be utterly scandalized, but Morgan just didn't have it in her to care. Not today, at the very least. Besides, the lives of these women were so dreadfully, dreadfully boring. Shouldn't they be thankful to have something to talk about for the next weeks to come? Dissecting her strange behavior would probably be more entertaining that badmouthing Guinevere's dancing skills or-- gods, Guinevere. Just thinking about that name felt like a knife in her heart, and so Morgan reached for another cup.

"Good evening, my queen," Merlin greeted her when she approached him. His eyes were-- neutral, mostly, but also somewhat cautious? Like eyes of a prey animal that had just spotted a predator in the distance. (A strange way to be viewed, really, especially in Camelot. And by a powerful magician, too!) "Congratulations to your marriage. The ceremony was breathtaking-- I am certain even the future generations shall talk of it." If there would be any future generations, considering how stupidly the resources were being managed. That probably wasn't Merlin's problem, though. Considering how old he was, he wouldn't reap the fruits of those actions. "Oh, have you? Do go on," he said when it became apparent Guinevere hadn't come for smalltalk only. And his expression when he found out? Oh, the lack of happiness was palpable. Still, the position of queen did come with certain privileges, and Merlin not being able to dismiss her easily was certainly one of them. Especially since Arthur had sanctioned this, too! "What are you interested in?"
 
"Excalibur." It may be bold of her to answer his question so directly, but after weeks upon weeks of feeling utterly useless, Guinevere's grown sick and tired of wasting her breath. Beautiful ceremonies, future generations -- none of that fucking matters! And she's participated in quite enough idle chatter for one evening, thank you very much. Enduring speculative talk of a future she doesn't want, of children she doesn't want. (It began with Arthur blathering of the traits she'd pass on and spiraled on from there, didn't it? She downed the liquid in the vial Morgan had given her the night before, which at least ensured that it wouldn't become her reality. But the unfortunate fact is... it won't stop Arthur from trying. As much as she wants this day to end, the worst of it is yet to come.) No, no. The only way she can stay sane is to put it out of her mind. Focus on one task at a time. And this one is important. "I'm sure you were made aware of my accident. That I... had a strange reaction to the sword."

"It frightened me. I've never felt anything like that before." Guinevere wraps her arms loosely around herself. She notices, after all, the fact that Merlin appears somewhat wary around her. Whether that's because her new status as queen has given her a newfound effect on Camelot's people or if it's something else entirely, it's too early to say. But she decides then that putting herself in a space of vulnerability might give him some incentive to let his guard down around her. Because as far as anyone in Camelot is concerned (unless their name is Morgan, that is) she's never practiced magic before in her life. "When I asked Arthur about it, he explained that Excalibur led him to me. About how he's going to restore the earth and how I'm meant to... support him."

Yes. That lovely supporting role, in his words, that oh so many women would kill to have. Guinevere would gladly hand it over if it didn't put everyone's hopes of a better future at stake. Really. What would Arthur have done if she announced that she wanted to leave his ass? If it didn't put their goals at risk, she'd have been so curious to see.

"Restoring the scorched earth is a noble task." A burst of boyish laughter rises across the hall, distinctly from where Arthur is celebrating with his knights. Her gaze lingers there for a moment. Ugh. Yeah, the great hero himself, in all his glory. How noble he seems in that ridiculous crown. Anxious that she's about to let her disdain show, she allows her gaze to wander across the entirety of the banquet hall and -- and her eyes catch Morgan for all but an instant. (Looking as beautiful as she remembered from hours before, but... she seems a bit flushed, doesn't she? Oh, she hopes she's okay. Or as okay as can be expected, considering the circumstances.) Knowing the dangers of allowing her gaze to linger for too long, Guinevere glances back at Merlin. "But... how can I be expected to do support him if the just sight of the sword causes me to faint?" It's a valid point, isn't it?

"I intend to take my duties as queen seriously, Merlin. I don't want to let Arthur or my people down." Guinevere had plenty of time to pretty up these words in her head. But leadership? That's a quality she's had in her long before she stepped through Camelot's gates. (My people. Right. She suppresses the urge to cringe.) So many strangers attended this cursed wedding. None of them had extended a warm welcome to her when she first arrived in Camelot -- didn't make her feel like she belonged in the slightest. (With the exception of Lancelot, maybe -- but he's not even here right now. Because apparently he's out in the wastelands searching for her. A pang of guilt spears through her every time she thinks of the knight. She can only hope that he hasn't gotten himself killed out there on her account.) That said... none of her actual people, her friends, were extended an invitation. Not that she'd even want them there to witness her signing her freedom away with those god awful vows. Morgan being forced to watch... that was unbearable enough as is. It's Morgan who she doesn't want to let down. She has to learn the Lady of the Lake's name. Guinevere swallows and steels herself with a deep breath. "I believe knowing more about Excalibur will help me fulfill my role in the future. If there's anything you can tell me, I would be much obliged."
 
"Ah yes, the sacred sword," Merlin nodded. Once again, the look he gave her was unreadable-- both suspicious and, strangely enough, also kinder than before. What a weird cocktail. Did he maybe believe in what she was saying? But if so, then why the doubts? Why the fear that had colored his words just a few seconds before? There was no end to the questions that surrounded Camelot, it seemed. You answered one, and another swarm of them emerged. "I am happy to give you all the information you might need, my queen, but I do not think we should talk about it here. What I have to share is meant for your ears alone." Well, that, and maybe he also needed to think about what to tell her and what should remain hidden? Because he seemed so very, very cautious-- almost like someone who tried to catch a butterly with his bare hands and not hurt him, really. Still, it appeared that he didn't quite dare to send her away entirely.

"Nonetheless, I am happy to hear that you accepted your responsibility. Me and the king were afraid of you-- not adjusting quickly enough." Right, as in her not licking Arthur's boots with genuine enough enthusiasm. Because that was what these people wanted from Guinevere, wasn't it? "Either way, there is no need for you to worry. As the king has told you already, your role in this is to support him, which means you will never have to be confronted with the sword's power anyway. It is a strong power, my lady, and a dark one as well, so be thankful you are not its intended wielder." More lies, then. Good to know, at least, that everything she learned here would have to be taken with a grain of salt. "You are special because of your bloodline, and the gift that comes along with it. The strong reaction you had is natural, for the presence of Excalibur only makes it more pronounced. That is what I learned from the Lady of the Lake. Your duties consist of bearing the king's sons so that your legacy may live on." Oh. Well, that was kind of expected, wasn't it? Not like they would give her a greater degree of responsibility-- or, god forbid, some sort of agency. "The king will take care of the rest. I can share more if you're interested, but as I said, not here. This information can potentially be dangerous."

Meanwhile, Morgan's words shrank to wine, and it almost made her feel okay. Well, fine, it didn't, but maybe if she pretended hard enough, it would turn into the truth? Because, you know, the power of positive thinking and all that. (If only positive fucking thinking could save Guinevere from her fate. From-- ugh. Clearly, it was brain bleach that she needed, not wine! Brain bleach and enough poison for all those sneaks who had the audacity to make it seem as if they cared about her Gwen. Bastards, all of them!)

"Lady Morgan?" one of the servants approached her, worry written all over his features. Some stable boy, probably. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she had never bothered to remember his name. "You've been drinking quite a lot. Don't you think that's enough? I, uh, people are staring." And wow, did she feel bad about it now because apparently he cared for her on some level. Why, though? She couldn't think of a reason beyond basic human decency, and that was in such short supply here it almost staggered her.

"Um. Maybe," she giggled, all of her usual eloquence gone. Who even cared about such silly things as reputation? It had never saved her from being blamed for everything ranging from them running out of potatoes to The Catastrophe itself, anyway!

That was, of course, the moment she saw Arthur walk across the room and whisper something in Guinevere's ear. It wasn't difficult to guess what it was, mainly because it was accompanied by him standing way too close for comfort and tugging on her sleeve incessantly. Clearly, he was suggesting for them to leave the guests to their own devices so that they could go celebrate in private. This hypothesis of her got confirmed when Arthur headed towards the exit, clearly expecting his wife to follow.

"... but maybe I'm also not drunk enough yet," Morgan added quickly, unable to look away from the couple. Please, Gwen, be okay. Please.
 
Guinevere's expression is rock solid, but she subtly digs her nails into the palm of her hand to suppress a snide comment when Merlin calls Excalibur's power a dark one. Maybe it's his attempt to scare her away from entertaining the prospect of taking that destiny into her own hands. It doesn't do the job, though, not in the slightest. Because where the hell do they get off, treating Morgan the way they do, if they're if this supposed 'dark magic' is going to be Camelot -- the world's -- saving grace? That righteous fury dissolves a little when he mentions the Lady of the Lake. Okay, good. She'll need a clear head to press on this further. Of course she's not going to get anything worthwhile about Excalibur's true purpose from the wizard -- but perhaps she can investigate the Lady of the Lake, if she asks the right questions perhaps... but then, of course, Merlin goes on to say that her only purpose is really providing the king his precious heirs. And if that particular stab into her heart wasn't deep enough, Arthur comes in to finish the job himself when he appears at her side and whispers in her ear. She blinks a few times, the color draining from her face as she watches him stride towards the exit. Far more eager than he has any right to be. Shuffling frantically to put herself back in working order, she offers the wizard a little smile that's nothing if not nervous. "Thank you for speaking with me, Merlin. I'll meet with you some... some other time, then."

If Merlin is the orchestrator of these lies about her 'purpose' to bear the king's heirs and nothing more, to pass down her bloodline... then he's widely responsible for what's about to happen to her, too. Oh. Wouldn't it be so satisfying to punch him in the nose? (Not just once, but twice. For herself and for Morgan!) Instead, she forces herself to walk after Arthur before she can entertain any violent thoughts in depth. Anger inches a closer to fear with every step, and at some point she stumbles over her own feet and lands on her knees. Ugh. She'd made it through the entire night without stumbling on these damned stilts -- but her ankles are aching, her heart is aching... suddenly she feels so pathetic and powerless that she could crumble right there, really, but then a hand reaches down to help her up and she knows she can't succumb. With a sigh, she takes it and rises up to her feet to see none other than Iphigenia. Great. Fantastic.

"Worry not, queen Guinevere." The woman's smile is far too friendly to be genuine, her fingers seem to dig into her arm with pent up frustration. "We don't expect you to be perfect. No one forgets where you actually come from."

Yeah? Neither have I. Guinevere levels her with a stare, suddenly far more amused then hurt. Was that supposed to be a threat? The reminder of her friends in the wastes, if anything, bolsters herself with just enough confidence to carry on.

"Thank you. I'm actually so relieved to hear that, because..." Guinevere reaches down to take off her heels. Casts them haphazardly to the floor one at a time, each landing with a useless 'clunk'. Good riddance. It's not as though the music stops playing, not everyone stops enjoying the celebration to stare. No, it's not nearly that dramatic. But it certainly gives those who witness it something more to gossip about. A small rebellion, damn it, but she'll take it. It won't change her fate. Her only purpose is bearing heirs, isn't it? What are they going to do, kill her in retaliation for acting just a little brash? (How ever will her precious bloodline continue if they do that?) If she can't liberate herself, she'll at least liberate her feet from these horrible shoes! And if Iphigenia wants to wear them so badly, well, she can take them for herself. God, she'd offer her to let her take her place right now, too, if she were really so willing. But... no, she can't. She can't. She can't. "I can't stand high heels. In fact, go ahead and keep them if you like. I'm sure a bona fide lady such as yourself would find more use for them."

As gratifying as it is to speak up for herself, if only to a small extent, it's not nearly enough to soothe the ache. Guinevere blinks hard. Her chest is tight, heart's a mess. She's held it together so far, damn it, she can't screw it all up now. She has to get out of here before she completely loses her cool. Fortunately, Iphigenia's so appalled that it's simple to pull out of her hold and follow Arthur's lead to the exit, closing her eyes over the stinging in her eyes.
 
The following weeks were torture, plain and simple. Morgan had, of course, expected that she wouldn't be able to see Guinevere as much, but she hadn't quite anticipated the sheer extent of that isolation. And, gods, did that feel like a nightmare. As a married woman, she had lost the right to her own chambers and instead cohabitated with Arthur-- that, while painful, wasn't all too surprising. It was inconvenient that they had to say goodbye to their nightly sessions, but hey, what could you do? Not much. Besides, Morgan had resigned herself to that fate a long, long time ago. What shocked her, however, was the way marriage to Arthur just... sucked away all of Gwen's free time, really. When he wasn't pestering her, she was now expected to sit with the noble ladies, or entertain his guests, or-- well, Morgan didn't even want to think about it. As it was, they only really met in the great hall during dinners, and the sorceress was afraid to do anything beyond greeting her. (Arthur still hated the idea of them hanging out, right? And now-- now he actually had an unrestricted access to her, meaning he could hurt her in retaliation. Hurt her in ways she frankly didn't even wish to imagine.)

Of course, Morgan didn't abandon Guinevere. That was something she'd never forgive herself for, especially considering the role she had played in her marrying her stupid brother. As such, she sent her messages via Marietta and other trustworthy maids-- brief, hopefully uplifting notes that couldn't be traced back to her. 'Good morning.' 'I miss you.' 'That red dress really suited you.' And yes, they did sound like blatant love letters, but honestly, she didn't care. Fate had taken everything else from them, and so she at least decided to have this. This, and perhaps also the feeling of warmth that spread in her chest whenever Guinevere found herself near her. Those moments were accidental more than anything else, though that kind of made it feel magical-- magical and precious as well. Didn't they say that distance made the heart grow fonder, after all? (Morgan still wished it didn't have to be like this, though. Like, she didn't need to be more fond of Guinevere. Her whole heart already belonged to her!)

The time she couldn't spend with the other woman was painful, though Morgan didn't allow it to go to waste. Thinking about Gwen's suffering and the terrible things Arthur likely did to her-- well, that wouldn't help anyone, least of all her. Working on ending his reign, though? That would have a lasting impact. A real, tangible change. Wouldn't that be glorious? And so Morgan buried herself in her research again, only really leaving her room to meet with her fellow conspirators and disseminate rumors. (Men like Arthur sneered at gossip, but they really, really shouldn't. It was so easy to manipulate the public opinion with the right words! Morgan didn't really have that much material to work with just yet, but even so, the tides were beginning to turn already. The way he had eschewed most of his diplomatic duties and forced Guinevere to stand in for him? He had likely done it to gain more time for his silly quests, but Morgan had made sure that the lords and ladies arrived to the conclusion he didn't value them enough. Why else would he have let his freaking wife handle them, after all? Oh, the idiot had no idea what he had gotten himself into. Especially since his power derived from the fact these people had agreed to be ruled by him! Even if he didn't know, this was the first battle Morgan and Guinevere had won. Hopefully the first of many, really.)

Still, despite her efforts to work towards the future instead of living in the present, Morgan's loneliness felt overwhelming. Just-- damn. She hadn't realized just how much she had gotten used to Guinevere's smiles, touches, kisses. They had all been there until they suddenly weren't, and it was as if-- as if Arthur had ripped her heart out of her chest and crushed it in his armored fist. (She just missed her. Missed her in the same way sunflowers missed the sun at nights, or the life sleeping in the soil missed spring.) Perhaps that was the reason Morgan just-- couldn't help herself, really, when she sensed Guinevere's presence in the library one day. Seeing her just for a few moments couldn't hurt, right? Technically, they were freaking sisters in law! Surely, surely they could exchange a few polite words without it being seen as strange or suspicious.

The gods, at least, were kind, for nobody had accompanied her there. Meaning, she was alone! Finally! Morgan swallowed the sob that was threatening to spill from her lips, and instead forced herself to smile. (It was a little wobbly, but it was a smile nonetheless. So what if sorrow was tearing her apart? Such emotions were contagious, and Guinevere didn't deserve to absorb them. There was enough poison in her life as it was, even without her baggage. Besides, weren't they together now? She should savor this moment instead of-- instead of letting her worries spoil it.) "Gwen. Gwen, gods, I-- how are you holding up?" A stupid question, as Morgan immediately realized, but-- well. Those words could hardly be taken back now, could they?
 
With the loss of her private chambers, there’s really no time at all for Guinevere to be Guinevere, anymore. Maintaining the act, the illusion, is a full time endeavor she’s only allowed respite from when she’s sleeping. From the moment she wakes up in the morning, an entourage of maids enter and help her get ready for the day -- her only solace in that is when, occasionally, she would receive a secret message from those who Morgan trusted. Those sweet little messages peppered here and there became her sole reason to smile, really, and she would always send one in return. 'Good afternoon', ‘I miss you, too.' Missed her more than she could say. Depending on how busy Arthur was, sometimes she ate breakfast with him... and he would explain the duties he’d have her see to for the day. From there it was maintaining fake smiles and attending to duties that were often just as boring as they were meaningless. She held herself intact, learned on her feet from experience, and even managed to make some 'friendly' acquaintances along the way. Using the term friendly very loosely here, considering it's hard to trust just anyone in a place like Camelot. Especially now that she's queen and not just Arthur's betrothed from the wastes. Those who were made to acknowledge her existence now, though, also began to realize that she was more than just a pretty face. A handful of the guests she entertained grew to show an interest as to how she survived the wastelands. Some even grew to respect her for it. Baby steps, perhaps, but they were steps nonetheless. Not only that, but... is she beginning to sense a sort of disdain for Arthur from some of them? How curious.

Evenings in Camelot rapidly went from being her favorite time of the day, with Morgan's past visits... to her least favorite, now that she's Arthur's. Guinevere quickly fell into the habit of lying perfectly still, of disassociating. He never seemed to care that she wasn't acknowledging or reciprocating any of his kisses. Just whispered sweet nothings that only served to make her skin crawl and proceeded to take what he wanted. Seeking refuge within her own mind was really the only way to escape the present moment. She'd take to imagining herself outside and far away from Camelot. Safe in a forest of the distant future, surrounded by canopies of greenery. Sunlight on her skin and the wind in her hair, the soft of flowers and grass against her bare feet. If she needed an extra dose of comfort, she’d go as far as to imagine her fingers interlocked Morgan’s, her head on her shoulder. No matter what, she doesn't let him see her cry. She always waits until it's over, when she can finally turn away from him to do that.

Guinevere knew from the start that this marriage would be a sort of death for her. That it'd test her spirit more than anything else. Now that there's a future to reach for beyond just securing some measly supplies for her gang, she's fighting as hard as she can to hold onto herself. God, her gang. She's doing this for them, but... another month has passed and she has nothing to show them for it. How many of them have succumbed to hunger since then? Are those large monsters still bothering them? There's so much she still doesn't know. On top of that, she's only found time to visit Merlin once since the wedding and that attempt was just about as unsuccessful as the first. (Sometimes... sometimes it feels hopeless, like she's been suffering in vain. But no one ever said securing a better future would be easy.)

The rare moments of free time she had were usually unprecedented -- too sudden and fleeting to plan a proper meeting with Morgan, as much as she might have liked to. In those moments, she tended to wander into the library. In the past few weeks, reading in the gardens become her favorite pastimes. Because nothing makes her more restless than an idle mind and hands. Now more than ever. Today, though, a thick rain beats against the windows and going outside clearly isn’t an option... so she finds a comfortable chair to perch herself in instead. Having finished reading a few titles on ciphering, she’s moved on to reading about medicinal herbs and flowers. The cover is inconspicuous enough for a ‘lady’ such as herself... no one would guess at a glance that she’s currently engrossed in a section about poisonous breeds. (...Not that she’s getting any creative ideas or anything like that.) Coiling a strand of hair absentmindedly around her finger, her hand stills all of a sudden and her eyes become sharp with alertness. It becomes harder to focus on the words in front of her when there's a slight tug in her heart -- a sensation which arises almost exclusively at dinners now. It means Morgan's close. She can feel it. It makes her heart flutter so violently the impact might make her cry.

Gwen. How long has it been since she last she heard her name, unattached to proper titles? (And, god, Morgan's voice. Morgan.) Guinevere practically drops her book in excitement. After all this time, do they finally have a moment to themselves? Because it certainly seems like it!

"Morgan." Though her own is a bit wobbly in return, Guinevere smiles properly for the first time since the night they parted. She quickly abandons her book in her chair to stand and approach her. Oh, she longs to hold her hands and kiss her -- but she's not a hundred percent sure whether or not that'd be safe yet. (Screw safe, a voice in the back of her mind whines, but she shushes it.) Are they really alone? Well... then again, Morgan must think so, if she's calling her by her name. As for her question -- it'd be useless to lie, right? Still, she doesn't want to break apart. For all her talk of responsibility, she can't let that happen after just a few weeks. No... no, she has to be stronger than that. "I'm, um... You know me. I'm still kicking." It's an attempt, anyway. She's quick to brush the subject of herself aside, though. Because she doesn't know how much time they'll have and she's been dying to know how Morgan's been in return. "--What about you? I-- I've missed you so much."
 
'I'm still kicking.' How very succint and yet very telling at the same time. Guinevere may have fooled all those people who got to spend time with her now, but never Morgan. Never Morgan, who had gotten to know the subtleties of her smiles in such an intimate way. She knew what it looked like when they were honest, when her eyes smiled along with her mouth, and gods, was that not true at the moment. Just what had Arthur done to her? (Well, it wasn't like she couldn't imagine. Damn. If only she could make the time gallop faster-- the seeds she had planted would grow quicker, and Guinevere would suffer no longer. Still, those were just childish dreams. Nothing in the world could possibly force time's hand, and so she could only stand at the sidelines and watch. Well, that, and maybe also talk to her from time to time. Like now, you know?)

"I missed you as well," she said, quietly, before sitting down next to her. The library was empty, after all, and so what if someone saw them? Nobody had explicitly forbidden them from seeing each other. Again, they were sisters in law, and so they could probably get away with, uh, discussing Arthur or something. Relatives in functional families did that, didn't they? Not that Morgan would know anything about functional families from first-hand experience, but books were a thing. "And I-- well. It's bearable, I suppose." Bearable, because she hadn't broken down yet. She didn't have any right to, anyway; not when it wasn't her who had had to give up everything including her own body. In such a situation, drawing attention to her own pain would have been nothing but selfish. "I'd prefer to have you closer to me, but, you know," the sorceress shrugged. "That wouldn't go over that well." ...which had to be the world's greatest euphemism for being executed unceremoniously, really.

"I've been working on some things, though. It's going well. Not as quickly as I wish, but well enough." Yeah, Morgan didn't dare to specify, though she figured she didn't have to-- Guinevere wasn't stupid, after all, and surely she knew what she was referring to. In Camelot, there was only one thing to work towards, and that was its downfall. "Don't worry. I haven't-- haven't forgotten about anything. Not a single promise." Despite it potentially being risky, Morgan couldn't really resist placing her hand on tops of her. She just needed that tiny amount of contact, okay? (It had been so, so long since she had touched the other woman freely. Whole centuries away, it seemed. Either way, the touch was as intoxicating as it was dangerous, and Morgan couldn't bring herself to be sensible now. Not when they had been nothing but sensible for such a long time, anyway.)

"Is there-- is there anything I can help you with? Just say the word, Gwen. I can't do that much yet, though if there's something that could potentially make this easier for you, I'll try." Not that Morgan thought Guinevere's quality of life really could be improved short of straight up murdering Arthur, but perhaps she could think of some wish? As the queen, there were so, so many things she couldn't attend to, after all. The crown on her head? It was a chain more than anything else, really.
 
"I know." Guinevere replies softly in response to Morgan saying she hasn't forgotten her promise. And she does. Of course she does. These last few weeks have felt like drowning and now it's like a hand has broken through the surface to pull her up for air -- if only for a moment. Prone to escaping into her mind so often, it'd sometimes feel like Morgan was just a beautiful figment of her imagination, a coping mechanism she'd built to withstand this. Of course their connection kept her tethered to the fact that she wasn't, but... the warmth of her hand on top of hers gives an extra push to remind her that it's still real. She swallows, wishing she could outright hold her right now more than anything. Instead, she settles for gently turning her hand so their palms are touching and interlocks their fingers. The guests offhand remarks about how Arthur couldn't be bothered to deal with them? That with every passing day, they seemed to grow more irritable with him? Of course it was Morgan, pulling strings behind the scenes. Her brilliant, brilliant Morgan. She manages a small, knowing smile. "I've noticed."

"I've been... doing my best." She averts her eyes, as much as she doesn't want to. There's an unshakable sort of shame that accompanies her position now, although she knows she shouldn't have to feel that way. Of course they've been over this before, in no uncertain terms that Morgan wasn't going to judge her for marrying Arthur. And of course she doesn't think Morgan's going to judge her. But she still can't help the way her skin crawls with humiliation, when she has to confront what her life looks like now. This total loss of agency -- it's similar to the way she'd felt being locked up with that cult. There's nothing that cuts her deeper than feeling this useless. Now, though, it's a matter of biding her time. One day she'll have her voice back and she'll fight. Oh, she'll raise hell. "It's been an adjustment. Figuring out what I can do." What she can get away with, really, but she's being decidedly careful with her word choice here. They've dropped their titles, they're holding hands, but those things weren't outright damning the same way getting caught conspiring against Arthur would be.

"I haven't been outside on a walk since before my accident." Guinevere seems to have steeled over with seriousness when she looks at her again. She's using the story she gave Arthur, when they'd found them at the gates. Talking of her camp directly would be too risky, so she improvises with a code made out of the excuse she'd told him. "Do you remember? You protected me from that giant monster." She bites her lip, giving her hand the slightest squeeze as her gaze falls dejectedly into her lap. "I don't think I'll have the chance to take another walk like that for a while." God, she hates the idea of sending Morgan out on an errand into the wastelands alone, though. But Morgan is nothing if not capable. She's a survivor in her own way, and -- if there's even a chance for her to get away with it, she has to bring it up. "It's been... almost four months, now." And, well, her worries might as well be written on her face at this point. A lot can happen in four months.

"My spare time is limited, lately, but I've been doing a lot of reading." Guinevere clears her throat in an attempt to recover. Now, how does she word this? She can't outright tell her she's been reading books about ciphering. No, she's got to come up with something convincing, something innocent. "Actually -- I came across this long word I didn't understand. Would you help me with it?" Convincing, because it is a genuine question she's had to ask in the past -- it's not as though she ever got a proper education, growing up in the wastes. There were some words she's had to ask Morgan for help with. She releases her hand, as much as she doesn't want to, and stands. Beckoning for Morgan to follow her lead, she moves purposefully towards one of the back rows. In the process, she's able to survey the library and see that it really does seem as though they're alone in here. She reaches for the title on ciphering she'd read the other day, opens it and quickly flips to a page with a chart for a particular code on it. She taps the page and it quickly becomes evident that it's not a word she wants Morgan's help with. If she can memorize the page number and the code, they could potentially use it to send more detailed messages. "--What do you think?"
 
That little 'figuring out what I can do'? Gods, that just about broke her heart. Guinevere had always been free like the wind, doing whatever she wanted, and now-- now that cursed marriage had reduced her to this. Finally, the door of the gilded cage had closed behind her. (Morgan... didn't actually know what that felt like, or at least not fully. Her magic had made her live on the fringes of the society, yes, but it had also allowed her to exist outside of constraints of ladyship. Some of the things still applied to her, such as pretty dresses and manners, though the most important aspects of it? Aspects such as being sold to the highest bidder, which was what marriage effectively was? That she was free of. No self-respecting lord would, after all, marry an evil witch. What a blessing, huh? Too bad that Guinevere's gift hadn't been discovered earlier-- before meeting Arthur, even. Then, had gods been good, she would have fried his brain back in the wastes upon receiving that insulting offer and none of this would have happened at all.)

Morgan would have liked to remain in that dream world of hers longer, but Guinevere continued to talk, so that was what she focused on. "Ah. Yes, of course I remember. What a large, ugly beast it was. A good thing I was there." That part, at least, was true-- it was a good thing she had been there, mostly because she had gotten to know Guinevere's friends. ...which was what she was referring to, wasn't she? Her smart, smart Gwen. (The fact that she had had to learn how to speak in riddles, how to dance around the truth so that nobody but those initiated into her circle understood, was an awful tragedy, but it simultaneously proved her right. Guinevere had been built to endure, dammit. This wouldn't break her, oh no, no, no. Together, they'd find a way for her to thrive, even if it had to be paved in the blood of her enemies. In the blood of her monstrous brother, really.)

"Uh huh," Morgan nodded, understanding clearly what kind of message she wanted to convey. The worry for her gang-- gods, it must have been eating her alive. Very well, then. Why not? The wastes didn't scare her. No, not even the most terrible parts of them didn't terrify her nearly as much as the darkness in some people's hearts. And even if it did-- well, Guinevere walked a much, much more difficult path, anyway. Why should she get to remain completely unscathed? That would only increase the weight of the guilt on her shoulders thousandfold. "In that case, I think I shall take a walk for us both. Your duties are too important for such frivolous things, but at least you can join me in spirit. I can tell you of all the interesting things I encounter, too. Even a queen must rest from time to time, you see? I am sure such stories will help you relax." In other words: "Don't worry, I'll bring you all the news you need to hear." Gods, this kind of communication would be hard to keep up! Still, it was the only way they could really talk in now, and Morgan knew better than to throw that safety net away. They were in a library, dammit. Hardly a safe enough environment!

"Oh, truly? Show me, then," Morgan smiled and waited for Guinevere to show her... oh. A book on ciphers? Wow. How come this hadn't occurred to her before? Had grief consumed her to this extent? Well, perhaps in part. Grief and also research, which, strangely enough, had always seemed to go hand in hand with her. Still, this could potentially change everything! "Grandiloquence," Morgan said instead, suppressing her joy. "A style of speaking that is unnecessarily pompous. Basically, it's when you use a lot of flowery words with no real substance. Remember to steer clear of it." And, gods, it was no coincidence the sorceress placed emphasis on 'remember', because she would. She would remember exactly how this cipher was used, so that they could exchange more than just a few meaningless words.

"It would only make you look stupid in the long run." With that, Morgan stepped a little closer and touched her hand. And then-- well, then she lifted it up only to place a little kiss on top of it. Was it foolish? Definitely, but to hell with everything. How many people even visited a freaking library in Camelot? So many of them were downright proud of their ignorance! Besides, it had been so long since she had gotten to touch Guinevere like that. If Morgan was forced to abstain from it for an even longer period of time, surely her impatience would explode in a catastrophic manner, and everything would be that much more terrible for it. Right, this was a preventative measure! Not her giving in to the temptation or anything like that. "Do you understand? Or should I do it again? Perhaps more thoroughly? Explain, I mean." It wasn't at all what she meant by that, but that was, of course, the entire point.
 
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"If you don't mind explaining it again, I think I'd like that very much." Guinevere smiles and leans in a little closer. What? They're in the very back of the library, it's so quiet and they've yet to see anyone. And, well, she's feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks -- with Morgan knowing that she misses her friends, that she's willing to try and pay them a visit when she gets the chance. What's just one brief, stolen kiss? They're no more than a breath away from touching, for what feels like the first time in ages, when -- when a scandalized gasp interrupts them. --Oh shit. Fucking shit. Goddammit. She never thought it was possible for her heart to drop this quickly. Sucking in a sharp breath, she stumbles backward and whirls around to face -- oh no. No, no, no. It's not Arthur, at least, but it's still worse than she could have imagined.

"By the gods. I knew it. I knew from the very beginning that you were nothing more than a temptress." Iphigenia spits the word like it's something dirty -- but the gleam in her eyes is unmistakably pleased. (The hunger in her gaze reminds Guinevere of the cult. Just out for her blood in an entirely different way.) A predator taking a golden opportunity to corner her prey. "First King Arthur, then Sir Lancelot, and now--" She gesticulates towards Morgan, as though she's too mortified to put it into words. Because as far as Camelot's ancient values go, well, it's basically bad as bad can get. The king's sister, the fact that they're both women and... the horribly warped way these people in Camelot view Morgan altogether. "You would even sink so low as to satiate your appetite with the witch!"

Guinevere opens her mouth to speak -- but somewhere within the past few weeks, her fire was smothered and all of her words of retaliation have disintegrated to ash. Now her mind is blank with panic, her pulse racing uncontrollably. Everything they've worked for until this point is on the line. What -- what is she supposed to say to fix this? Stealthily, she inches the book of ciphers back into its place on the shelf behind her back. Iphigenia shouldn't have been able to see the title -- so that secret, at the very least, is safe. (Unless secrets don't matter anymore and everything is already ruined beyond repair. Damn it! How the hell did she materialize out of thin air like that?)

"Queen Guinevere." Iphigenia tone changes then, she clicks her tongue as though she's taking pity on her and stalks closer. "Perhaps this sort of behavior is acceptable where you come from. But in Camelot, it makes you an adulteress. Why, what would your beloved do if he finds out about this?" She glances between them, then, and has the audacity to smirk. There's a catch, here. There has to be. She's playing a game. "...Or perhaps he'll come to the conclusion that you've been bewitched again. Is that what this is?"

"--No. No. It's my fault." Guinevere blurts quickly, on impulse. No fucking way is Iphigenia meddling and getting Morgan sent to the catacombs again -- or, or worse. Arthur needs Guinevere to fulfill his 'destiny'... it might not mean she's entirely safe from suffering consequences, or safe from harm. But the fact of the matter is, he won't kill her. There's no way it can be as bad as what he might do to Morgan. Iphigenia pauses with this information, as if she's getting a read on the situation and arranging her own strategy accordingly.

"Poor thing. You're trembling." Iphigenia's all saccharine, pretending to be her friend as if she's not the cause her discomfort. She touches Guinevere's arm lightly and it takes all of her willpower not to yank away. "You really don't know any better, do you? I told you the other night that we don't expect you to be perfect, coming from the wastelands. I suppose, out of the goodness of my heart, I should take you under my wing." Her smile widens in such a way that she almost expects to see fangs. This isn't an offer to protect her. It's... "Perhaps if you find a place for me at your table, the king will never find out about this little... mistake."
 
"Well then," Morgan returned her smile, "I suppose that I am left with no choice but to obey." She leaned even closer, and, gods, had she always smelled this pleasantly or was it some cheap perfume they had forced on her? Either way, she was drowning in the sweetness, in her proximity, really, and then-- then Iphigenia's voice cracked like a whip. Damn it. Instantly, Morgan pulled away, but the damage had already been done. The woman had seen them, and obviously she wasn't going to be kind enough to forget about it. Gods. How could have everything gone to hell this fast?! They had been alone! Had Iphigenia and her cronies been spying on Guinevere, waiting for her to slip up so they were there to feast on her corpse? Like worms and vultures? Shit, shit, shit. (And to think she had been so giddy before! Now, it felt as if-- as if she'd been doused in cold water. In a fleeting moment, they could stand to lose everything.)

Somehow, though, Iphigenia's words made her angry more than genuinely afraid. Again, maybe it was because she'd been conspiring against Arthur for years now? The threat of everything imploding on her had been a familiar one, and she had reconciled with that concept long before even meeting Guinevere. (Or maybe, and that was more likely, Iphigenia's accusation of Gwen being a 'temptress' just made her see red. As if she had asked for Arthur's attention or Lancelot's clumsy attempts at flirting! All those men only wanted to take and take and take from her, and then she was blamed for inspiring these feelings. How very fair, right? Gods, she wished nothing more than to reduce the whole damn castle into ashes. Into distant history, really, when they insisted so hard on medieval ideas.)

"Yes, with the witch," Morgan agreed, her tone absolutely freezing. "The same witch who could curse you and your future children, as well as children of those children. Doesn't that seem like a good incentive to mind your own business?" It was a lot of words to say 'leave us the fuck alone,' sure, but Morgan just operated that way. No point in threatening someone if you didn't outline the consequences properly, right?

And on anyone else, it might have worked-- not on Iphigenia, though. "Silence, witch," she spat. "I know that the holy might of Camelot prevents you from doing whatever you'd like to do. Otherwise you would have turned all of us to toads already!" ...ugh. So some of them knew how logic worked, it turned out. Because, yes, Morgan couldn't very well use her powers in whatever way she wished, even if it wasn't caused by 'the holy might of Camelot' or some other nonsense. No, what kept her in line was political rammifications. Well, that, and the fact the murder would easily be traceable back to her-- killings caused by magic looked, uh, very specific. Maybe she could poison Iphigenia, though? ...except that poison wasn't effective immediately, and it would be foolish to assume that she wouldn't tell anyone as a safeguard in the meantime. And given how powerful her family were? Shit, shit, shit.

"Yes. Yes, I put a spell on her," Morgan quickly agreed with that version of events, just as Guinevere rejected it. Oh, damn. They just ended up looking like lovers who tried to protect each other-- which was exactly what they were! What a wonderful, wonderful camouflage. Real smooth! If she wasn't dying of anxiety, it could even have been funny. With Iphigenia being able to destroy them with a single word, though? Yeah, Morgan was not laughing. Thankfully, it seemed that Iphigenia had other plans-- plans that didn't result in their immediate destruction, at the very least. Small victories, right?

Still, when Morgan went to sleep that day, she was plagued with guilt. Existing as Arthur's wife must have been difficult enough as it was-- had she really had to add to it with her nonsense? Had it not been for that almost-kiss, Iphigenia would have had nothing to blackmail Gwen with. Nothing! Clearly, her presence only made things worse for her in the long run. More painful, more torturous. Staying away seemed like the superior idea, and so, after a moment of deliberation, Morgan decided to fulfill Guinevere's request. It wasn't like anyone would care too much about her absence-- Arthur had been, uh, distracted by his new wife, and Guinevere likely didn't want to see her for a while after what had happened, either. (And maybe, maybe she also wanted to punish herself a little bit? Eh, her head was a place too messy for any such introspection.) So, after packing some supplies, Morgan headed towards Gwen's old camp. Please, be okay. After all of this, I can't bring her bad news as well.

Morgan had been wrong about one thing, however-- her absence had, in fact, been noticed. Not by those she would have liked to, though. "Did you happen to meet lady Morgan lately, my queen?" Iphigenia asked sweetly as she worked on her needlecraft, seated among the rest of the noble ladies. (It was perfect as usual, of course. Iphigenia's stitches always looked smooth and deliberate, and she hadn't missed a single opportunity to 'advise' Guinevere on how to achieve the same goal. Well, if you were able to find that advice under all those thinly veiled insults.) "I was under the impression the two of you were close, and yet I haven't seen her for days. Has she perhaps abandoned you?"
 
Guinevere noticed Morgan's absence at dinner that night -- but their spell had made it apparent even sooner that a great distance was being put between them. It felt kind of like a hole being cut in her heart. Maybe one of the maids would have a message from her in the morning, an explanation? It must be that she's doing some research out in the wastelands, or maybe... maybe she's visiting her camp like she'd implied earlier on? She comes to the conclusion that it must be the second option, as she stands out on the balcony that night and the feeling doesn't subside. There aren't a lot of redeeming qualities about being kept in Arthur's chambers... but at least she's allowed to stand out on the balcony whenever she likes, allowed to breathe just a little fresh air. (Sometimes she'll let herself fantasize about tying all of her pretty dresses together to make a chain and flinging herself over the side and off into the night. If she didn't believe in Morgan and the future they were fighting for, she probably would have done it days ago. Hell, she'd have done it on her wedding night, before Arthur had a chance to--) Those thoughts are interrupted, though, when Arthur appears behind her. His hands find her shoulders, trace down her arms, and his lips find her neck -- a demand without words, but telling all the same. She automatically shuts down all her instincts as he guides her back inside.

The next morning, none of the maids have a clear message for her. Guinevere's dressed up for the day and sent to attend to all her duties, nothing if not distracted by the feeling in her chest that Morgan's away. She tries to take that as a sort of comfort. After all, she must be doing this for her sake. Of course wouldn't feel safe to send her a detailed message after what happened the day before. No, this is... it's strategic. Right? Doesn't erase the hurt of not having her near, of feeling more alone than ever. And of course she trusts in Morgan, she's strong, but... the wastelands are a dangerous place. God, what if something happens to her out there? (She'd never, never forgive herself.) She tries to bury every thought, to lose herself in attending to her routinely responsibilities. One day spans into two, and then three and -- and the worry suffocates worse than a corset. If there's any solace she can hold onto, it's she can tell by their connection that Morgan isn't dead.

Of course, Guinevere can't fully escape those concerns when Iphigenia has been making it her life's mission to keep her on her toes, to make her look inadequate. Not that she cares in the sense of inadequacy. Will making the prettiest piece of needlework even matter in the grand scheme of things? No. Absolutely not. Perhaps the fact that none of her efforts thus far have fazed her led her to resort to using Morgan's name as a weapon instead.

"Ah--" Guinevere hisses sharply with pain. She's no stranger to pricking her finger when working with these damned needles, but she's never outright stabbed herself like this before. The blood is quick to bead and spill down her thumb and she resists the urge to stick it right in her mouth. A sprinkle of red covers her needlework, because, of course it does. Aurelia, at her other side, is quick to wave a maid on standby over and she's immediately given a handkerchief to press over it. Guinevere feels Excalibur's presence like a second pulse inside of her. It always happens when she bleeds, she's begun to notice. After waving off some of the concerns sent her way, she's then forced to endure the curious stares circling her.

"Well... my position has left me very little time to visit just anyone on a whim, lady Iphigenia." Guinevere finally answers. And her hard work up until this point backs her up pretty solidly on this. Because aside from that brief moment in the library, she's had so little time to herself lately that it'd be extremely difficult for Iphigenia to make a convincing case that she's running off constantly to disobey Arthur. No, he praised her for being so dutiful on their wedding night and since then she's been exactly that. Even in her 'free' moments, it's rare that a guard or a maid isn't standing nearby to attend to her. Morgan's absence has been digging a big void in her chest, the fact that they've been apart for so goddamned long is a testament to the fact that there's so little evidence that could truly be used against them now. Still, she's decidedly careful about handling this. It's a delicate situation... she'll just endure Iphigenia's remarks, until another strategy makes itself apparent.

"Forgive me for asking, but... is it true that you and lady Morgan are close?" Aurelia pipes up shyly at her side.

"Hm. Lady Morgan and I will speak to each other, if we happen to cross paths. It would be highly improper for a queen to ignore any of her subjects, wouldn't you agree?" Guinevere allows her gaze to meet each of the ladies in the circle, refusing to falter, as though she intends to say that she won't ignore any of them either. It actually seems to make an impact on some of them. Of course she won't outright deny the fact that she and Morgan have spoken. Lying would likely only complicate things in the long run... lying would make her appear guilty, as though she has something to hide. "When I first arrived in Camelot, she was appointed by Arthur himself to give me lessons. While it is true that we're acquainted, I don't know nearly enough about her business to know where she could be right now."

In Guinevere's peripheral, she catches sight of an unfamiliar woman standing by one of the windows. Who is... within the span of a blink, though, she flickers out of existence again. Like a ghost. --Wait, what? Blinking slowly, as if to break herself out of a trance, she tries to justify her shift in attention by acknowledging the maid in the room. Thankfully, one who attends to Morgan enough to cover for them. "...Perhaps she's feeling unwell?" Okay. Don't panic, don't panic. Ghost lady -- or maybe a vision lady...? It must be a magic thing, right? She's having a reaction to-- to something. Maybe she'll persuade Arthur into arranging her a designated time to speak with Merlin in the near future. If Morgan's doing her a favor now, she might as well figure out a way to do her part by gathering information. At this point, she's got to prioritize knowing more about herself. It's the only way she'll ever escape this gilded cage.
 
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